Superheroes
by Lisa Paris
Summary: Two entire nights – him and Charlie – stuck alone in a tent, miles from anywhere.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Numb3rs is owned by CBS; I do not profit in any way from this work.

**A/N:** _So, here it is, and I suppose it's obligatory. Don and Charlie, in peril in the wilderness. I think it's probably some arcane rite of passage most writers have to go through . . . many thanks to Marilyn and Patti for their emails and messages of support. _

_This story is a free-for-all, Eppes angst-fest, and I've been very, very mean to both brothers. _

_Lisa._

**_____________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

**Marc Brown**

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part One **_

The room was elegant and thoughtfully decorated with a palette of warm muted colours. The pictures were modern originals – all costly and chosen with care. There was an air of discretion and money, so strong he could almost smell it. The overall ambience was further enhanced by a selection of high quality antiques. The whole impression was one of taste and expense and he guessed it was supposed to be soothing. He found it cold and even slightly dishonest. It looked nothing like a doctor's office.

Charlie leaned back in the light oak chair; he thought that maybe it was a genuine Baedeker. He stared out through the open window and watched the play of sunlight through the trees. _Not random, although most people thought so. _His eyes tracked the dappled gold movements. He'd once read a paper about it – the so-called phyllotactic patterns of leaves.

"Doctor Eppes," the voice was smoothly diplomatic. "Do you have any other questions? Anything at all you can think of – this must have come as a shock, take your time."

_A shock;_ well, that was a given. A full-on kick in the teeth, was more like it. He felt light-headed, his mind still reeling, _but in some ways, it wasn't much of a surprise._

"One question," he tried to refocus on the matter in hand, but the leaf-patterns were oddly compelling. He sat up a little straighter and swallowed hard. This was no time to lose his self-control. "The most obvious one, I suppose. I want to know my long-term prognosis, if you should find out the tumour's malignant."

"It's early days," the neurologist was candid, "but the images show the tumour quite clearly. It's still less than one centimetre in diameter, and described as a microadenoma. There's no point wasting time with a biopsy, it's far better to simply remove it. No deep incisions, a transsphenoidal procedure. In point of fact, we go in through the nose."

Charlie actually smiled a little. From a detached point of view, he couldn't help it. In a way, the surgeon's words were almost funny . . . _there was an awful lot of nose to go in through. _The response was just a touch slapstick with more than a pinch of pathos. In some ways, it was uncannily Don-like and he drew an ounce of extra strength from that. He had a feeling that over the coming weeks he would need all the surplus courage he could muster.

"I understand about the procedure, but you're not really answering my question. My mother died of cancer not so long ago. It was quite rapid and not very pretty. She had treatment, but it didn't seem to help much, as a matter of fact, she always claimed it made things worse." He paused, and accepted the quick stab of pain that remembering his mother always caused him. The sorrow felt fresh and resurrected, God, he wished she could be with him today. "If the biopsy's positive and the news is bad, then I don't know if I'd choose those forms of treatment. In the end, it would be my decision, but I have to know what to expect."

Doctor Rosen nodded with some sympathy. "I suppose there's no point in my telling you that, statistically, most pituitary tumours will turn out to be benign. It's of small comfort and poor consolation – most especially to a mathematician. But please, let's not talk about cancer yet. We can cross that bridge later _if_ we come to it. I'd rather concentrate on the procedure. Let's take this one step at a time."

_One step at a time,_ the words grated. Just for a second, Charlie clenched in frustration. He wanted – no, make that _needed_ – total honesty, a straightforward plan of attack. If he had all the facts, then he could deal with them. Or at least, he could try and begin to. He bit back a heated rejoinder - what gave Rosen the right to play God?

He, _Charlie Eppes,_ had a brain tumour.

There was no escape or refuge from the fact.

For several months now, he'd kind of suspected. It was a miracle that no-one else had noticed. All the clues had been tumbling into place for some time – quite literally, staring him in the face. The blurred vision, the crippling headaches, and then the dizziness and slight droop in one eyelid. Granted, they were all pretty subtle, but regardless of that, they were still there. At first, he'd put it down to simple fatigue. His life was busy and the pace had been frantic. What with CalSci, his book tour, the whole, damned business with Don, he'd been burning the candle at both ends.

The fear had crept up on him stealthily, a nasty warning on the borders of his consciousness. He'd pushed it aside and ignored it. With any luck, it would give up and go away. There was no real equation for dealing with this – no space or spare room in his life. After a while, he could no longer pretend to himself. Something was wrong – _who was he kidding?_ He could almost hear the clock counting the hours down, the second hand ticking around inside his head.

_It felt like he was running out of time. _

He'd kept it to himself, hadn't told a soul. Not Don, and most certainly not dad. There'd been occasions, in the intimacy of her bedroom, when he'd almost given in and told Amita, but even then, a grain of common sense had prevailed, and in the end, he'd held himself back. It was stupid – he knew it was stupid - he wasn't sure if it was fear or cowardice. She loved him enough to stand by him, and the support would be right there if he needed it. But he was filled with a crazy, irrational dread; _to articulate his fears would make them real_.

He wondered if mom had felt like this. With hindsight, he suspected she had done. Those early days, she'd soldiered on as if nothing was wrong, kept quiet and maintained the façade.

_Oh mom._

At long last, he thought he understood. Perhaps he was more like her than he realised. The familiar sense of loss came back to haunt him, and he missed her so much, that it burned. The leaves dipped in shades of vibrant green, interspersed with the first, languorous glints of autumn. Charlie acknowledged the same, empty sadness. It always _was_ her favourite time of year. He turned away from the window. Doctor Rosen was right, he decided. He'd been rolling downhill like a snowball, careering and gathering momentum as he thundered on, out of control. Not much point getting too far ahead of himself, it was stupid to begin planning his funeral. For the time being, he was forced to drift with the flow, and take things one step at a time.

He lifted his head. "How long does it take for the results to come back – when do we know for certain?"

"I'll operate first thing Monday morning. You'll know by the end of the week."

_First thing Monday morning_ - he nodded. There was something to be said for top dollar, and with this kind of service, who was he to begrudge the cost of another Baedeker chair?

Today was Friday; he wouldn't have to wait very long. He thanked the lord for small mercies. He didn't think he could cope with more than two days, it was bad enough as it was. But first, he had to get through the weekend. Seventy-two hours of pretending and smiling. He remembered, with an abstract start of dismay, that he'd agreed to go fishing with Don. Two whole nights spent under canvas with his brother. Charlie was tempted to cancel. He wouldn't last under Don's sharp-eyed scrutiny; not if his big brother radar was turned on.

The simple solution was to call off the trip.

_He would plead some excuse about workload and . . ._

_No,_ Charlie sighed, and tried to rake through his curls, temporarily forgetting his new haircut. He'd had them all shorn away just the other day, carried along on a whim of depression. In the end, it would make things easier . . . he'd always been a little vain about his hair. _He remembered one night, on the landing, hovering like a ghost outside the bathroom. His mother was crying, bitter tears of distress as she pulled out large handfuls of hair._ Resolutely, he forced the memory aside. He was panicking again and this was foolish. He would square up to this crisis like an adult – come out fighting and meet it head on.

Two days alone with Don would be perfect. A welcome chance to clear away all the cobwebs. Whatever grim future might lie ahead of him, he was going to need his big brother's help. He'd choose the right moment and tell Don the truth, spread his cards out, face up on the table. Simply bite the damned bullet, and once he had him on side, enlist some aid with the inevitable fallout. _He needed him . . ._ needed Don and his resolute strength, in-spite of all their recent disagreements_. _Don would be tough, as unyielding as granite, when it came down to offering his support.

He shivered, and felt his muscles contract. Until now, he'd been existing in limbo. Too afraid to confront the unpleasant details or deal with the reality of it all. Well, here he was, so to speak, at point _non plus._ There was no going backwards from this moment. No more secrecy or hiding from his loved ones.

Time to haul the _Big C_ out in the open.

In a way, he was taking the easy way out, and he was candid enough to admit it. He knew that Don would be there to deflect any flak and step into the direct lines of fire. He wondered if he was taking advantage - he guessed that he was - just a little. He was counting on Don's innate sense of duty, a reassumption of their old childhood roles. Whatever the state of their relationship, despite all the spats and petty squabbles, his big brother had always been his protector.

It was just something he'd always known.

Don would help him. It went without saying. He didn't doubt it, not for a second.

His brother had been through this before, after all, back in the dark days when mom was dying.

He had one last week of grace before he got the results. A whole week when he still _didn't_ have cancer. Before that, he had two days up in the mountains, beautiful, rugged and remote._ If it could help him get to grips with all this . . . if nothing else, it might clear his head_. _The scent of pine resin and autumn leaves, crystal water and cold, cold air. _The vast sky and the aching silence could be a time for contemplation and acceptance.

And best of all, he would be with his brother.

_One last chance to spend some precious time with Don._

Charlie braced and moved to the edge of the chair. "Okay, let's get this thing done."

* * *

**_Port of Los Angeles_**

The bullets struck with the force of a sledgehammer. Don lost his footing and went spiralling backwards. The third one carved into his bicep, three inches down from the edge of his vest. The breath had been sucker-punched out of his lungs, and he lay there, gasping and floundering. The sound in his throat was ragged as he struggled to take in some air.

It was useless. He jack-knifed onto his side, assuming the foetal position; curving his body around the pulse of pain which had centred like a ball in his chest. There was shouting somewhere off in the distance and a voice above the crackle in his earpiece. Through the darkness and the roaring of blood in his head, he thought they were calling his name.

More footsteps, and the popping of gunfire. He lay there, semi-conscious and out of it. A blaze was raging in the centre of his ribcage; he could breathe in, but couldn't exhale. He felt cold and his muscles were shaking. _Not good,_ he recognised the symptoms. The world was hazy, blurred with black around the edges. He thought he might be going into shock.

"Okay, man, we got you," it was Sinclair. He knelt down on the concrete beside him. "Just take it easy, and breathe nice and slowly. We got a bus on the way."

It was sound advice, so he took it; he tried counting as he lay curled on the sidewalk. _In and out,_ he used the words as a mantra, concentrating on the passage of air. He heard Sinclair talking to someone else, just out of sight of his range of vision. No more shots – and Don knew the raid was over - on this occasion, the intel hadn't played them false. Other than his stupid slice of misfortune, it must have panned out okay.

There were hands on him, competent and gentling. Undoing the Velcro straps of his vest. A familiar smell of moulded plastic, and then an oxygen mask over his face. _Easier now_ - it was easier. He took a breath, relieved the shaking was lessening. He tried to lift his head cautiously, and concentrated on the fire in his chest. A rush of cold in his veins as they sited an IV – he raised his good hand in an effort to protest. He regretted the movement immediately, and a wave of pain crashed over him again.

"Stay still, Don," Sinclair's voice was firm, as the paramedic's continued to work on him. "Those bastards used you for target practise. You took a live one in the upper left arm and two rounds centre mass in the vest."

Don grunted. _Tell me about it._ He focused inwards and made an effort to relax. "I'm okay - " he sure as hell didn't sound it. His voice cracked as the words huffed out of him.

"Yeah, right," the nearest paramedic smiled. "A real, tough guy. Of course you are."

"The guns?" Don concentrated on Sinclair as they lifted him onto a gurney.

"We got them. The whole, damned shipment." Sinclair squeezed his good shoulder briefly. "All present and accounted for. Liz and Colby have it in the bag. Like it or not, I'm coming with you to the hospital. Take it easy, Don, it's a wrap."

He leaned back as the tension seeped out of him. Whatever drug they'd given him was working. The pain seemed to be tapering off slowly to more of a localised ache. They wheeled him across to the ambulance, and David helped them lift him into the vehicle. A loud slam of the doors behind him, and then they were moving away.

The raid had gone down so quickly. He hadn't really had a chance to process. There'd been a horrible, gut-clenching second when the whole thing had slipped out of synch. He'd barely had time to call out a warning before the ice-water shock of being hit. _Not serious._ Pretty certain it couldn't be. Already, he felt a hell of a lot better. He wasn't too sure about his upper arm, but neither bullet to the chest had penetrated. He owed his life, and not for the first time, to the efficiency of his Kevlar vest.

_Fuck – this was the last thing he needed. _

Not after the last few months.

The business with Charlie, and Megan gone. His fractured team barely holding it together. He opened his eyes, and moved restlessly, cursing the errant gods for his bad luck.

"Okay, man?" David must have seen his distress. "Not long now. They're taking you to County General. I'll let Colby know when we get there, and then he can contact your folks."

"I'll call them myself," he gave David _'the gimlet look'._ The one when they knew he was serious. "It's not bad and I don't want to worry them. They have enough going down as it is."

"Don - " David sounded uncertain.

"Look, dad's away on a golf trip to Vegas, and Charlie's meeting me later. There's no point in worrying either of them. I'll tell them all the gory details later on."

By now, the pain was lessening. He was aching, but feeling more human. He strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the wound in his arm – it was just a bloody scrape by any accounts. All this fuss for a simple bullet graze and what he knew must be some technicolour bruising. With any luck, he'd be discharged by the end of the day. He was beginning to feel like a fraud.

It wasn't the first time he'd been hit in the vest, he lay back and cursed his stupidity. It hurt like fuck, and he would - just as he thoroughly deserved, be hellish sore for a couple of weeks. He gripped the side of the gurney and took a breath in, gratified to find it was easier. No sharp hitch or grating sensation – no broken ribs, as far as he could tell. In any case, he was going to be just fine, a little stiff and more than glad of the Advil, but no way was he staying in the hospital. This couldn't have come at a worse time.

The next few days were important to him; he would have to sweet talk the doctors. The circumstances weren't exactly perfect, but he needed this weekend with Charlie. Don sighed – it was the same old story. The one which had been playing out since their childhood. There was unfinished business between them, and too many words left unsaid.

He'd been a little surprised by the suggestion at first. It was so long since they'd spent time alone together. These days, if he wasn't working, then he was almost always with Robin. _Robin _. . . he couldn't help smiling, well aware that he probably looked foolish. With any luck, they'd assume it was the painkillers, but just the thought of her made him feel happy. _It was going well . . . he didn't want to jinx it._ Their relationship had really blossomed lately. She was bright and funny and beautiful, and _fuck,_ they couldn't keep their hands off each other. He caught up with dad whenever he could, but he and Charlie had kinda let things slide. Oh, not on the surface, on the surface, it was fine, no, the change was less obvious, more subtle.

It stemmed back to the whole clearance business – academia versus reality.

Don winced, as his ribs caught him sharply, even now, he felt a slight sense of betrayal. What had hurt most of all, and what still hurt today, was that Charlie hadn't spared him a damned thought. But what the hell, he supposed, it was all over now, his little brother had been given back his clearance. So, why did the hurt still rankle? In spite of everything, the wound remained raw.

The phone call had caught him slightly unawares.

A weekend alone, just the two of them.

_Two entire nights – him and Charlie – stuck alone in a tent, miles from anywhere._ No backtracking or diverting phone-calls, and no convenient excuses or escapes. With any luck, it could prove to be just what they needed. No outside pressures, just a little gentle fishing. It was a chance to thrash it all out between them. Maybe a way of exorcising old ghosts.

And now, this had happened. Don gritted his teeth, feeling pissed off all over again. Talk about throwing a wrench in the works, for God's sake, he could_ so_ do without it. He thought it over and made a quick decision. In-spite of everything, he'd been pretty lucky. At the end of the day, it would take a lot more than this, to stop him going up to the lake. _He missed Charlie._ There, he'd admitted it. It would be nice to get things back on a good footing. There was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, and he was not going to fuck it up now.

He knew the wound in his arm was nothing, just a few stitches and a course of antibiotics. The bruising was another matter entirely – non-life threatening, but it was going to be sore. He could manage, and it would be worth it, just to get this thing sorted with Charlie. A long drive and then a hike up to the lakeside; once they'd pitched the tent, they'd more or less stay put.

_Yeah, _he made a face,_ he could do it_.

He only hoped it would turn out okay.

Don gave thanks to whomever. For once, the cosmos had aligned in his favour. Maybe, after all, there was an upside; it was a stroke of good luck dad was away. He knew he could fool Charlie most of the time, but dad was another matter entirely. One sharp look and he would be scuppered. There was no getting past the old man.

He winced as the bruising made itself known, and forced him to shift on the gurney_. He was an ass – did he really want to do this?_ He closed his eyes and gave a slight groan.

The alternative was far more appealing, of course, a whole weekend of being pampered by Robin. He would rest and get to play the wounded hero, sleep off the bruises in her lavender-scented bed. Don sighed in quick frustration and pushed his head back against the pillow. The satin curve of her body and the soft cotton sheets . . . the random image was enough to entice him.

What the hell, he sighed ruefully, better just call him a masochist. He'd never really pictured Robin as a carrot before, but she was tempting and oh, so very sweet. Better file that one away for later, and stick strictly to the agenda. He'd be on sick-leave when he and Charlie got home again, so maybe not all would be lost. He'd still have the chance to spend some precious time with her, get the opportunity to ham it up a little, and to see the quick flash of concern in her eyes behind the tough front she showed to the world.

_First things first,_ he put on his game face.

He had to get himself seen to.

He nodded reassuringly at David.

_It was time to get this show on the road. _

_**TBC**_

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer -** _With thanks to epalladino who kindly suggested I add a disclaimer for language._

**A/N -** _Just a note to thank everyone for the all the alerts, reviews and favouritings. I really appreciate your support. _

_And for those who asked, then yes, this is pretty much a 50/50 Don and Charlie story. Obviously, some chapters may feature one brother a little more than the other, but I promise you, it does all even out in the end. _

_Lisa._

**_____________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Two**_

Don took a breath, leaned back in the seat, and surreptitiously revolved his tired shoulders. The sun bounced off the tarmac, white and bright, in-spite of his Aviator shades. If he was honest, he felt like crap, and right now, he was regretting his decision. He'd had an inkling things might be a tad awkward, but that had proved to be a slight understatement.

They'd been driving for nearly three hours straight now, and had barely exchanged more than two words between them. Charlie sat, looking wretched and apparently lost in deep thought, staring out of the side passenger window. From time to time, he'd gnaw on his fingernails, as if wrestling with some dark inner turmoil.

Don sighed, he couldn't help it. He was sore and incredibly weary. His arm throbbed all along the suture-line, to say nothing of the dull ache in his chest. He'd wangled his way out of the hospital by bending the truth just a little. In order to convince the doctors, he'd pretended to feel much better than he did. Still, the x-rays had come back negative – _unless you counted the two cracked ribs._ Not broken, thank the lord for small mercies, but still painful enough in their own right. He'd scowled David into submission and dosed up on a couple more painkillers, before exerting his charm on the doctors, and doing the whole macho male thing. He got his way in the end and persuaded them - it probably helped that the ER was busy. They eventually agreed to release him with a promise to call back if things got worse. He'd told Charlie the bare bones gist of it – there was no point in being totally stupid. However, Charlie had kept most atypically quiet, much to Don's surprise and relief.

_So, here they were,_ Don flexed his knuckles. Not exactly the picture of happiness. Hard to believe they were about to embark upon what _should_ be a relaxing weekend.

He sat up straighter, and shifted again, in an effort to ease his aching intercostals. It helped some – _not a lot_ – but a little. He still felt profoundly uncomfortable. Being cramped up in the confines of the driver's seat wasn't doing him any long-term favours. He needed to get out and stretch his legs - to stand upright and walk around in the fresh air. It was with relief, and more than a sense of reprieve, that he saw the little gas station ahead.

"Rest stop, Charlie. I'm gonna pull over."

"Yeah, sure." Charlie answered, abstractedly.

Don opened his mouth to say something acerbic, but then sighed and decided against it. If Charlie had something to tell him, better to wait, and let him spill in his own time. He signalled and pulled across onto the forecourt. Might as well fill his tank while he was here. There were restrooms and a small convenience store – he just hoped they sold a decent cup of coffee.

_God, he was more beat than he cared to admit_.

He really needed a strong slug of caffeine.

The hours of driving had taken their inevitable toll, and he groaned as his feet hit the concrete. A dense wall of humidity engulfed him; the whole act of moving turned into a bitch. Don sucked in a couple of lungfuls of air and leaned up against the car to check his balance. For a brief moment, the world greyed around him. He cradled his good arm across his ribs. Okay – he was okay. _He could do this._ His vision hazed and sharpened back into lucidity. He was right about needing the caffeine and he could really do with something to eat. Charlie was already out of the car and halfway across to the restrooms. He walked slowly and absent-mindedly – he hadn't noticed anything was amiss.

_Good_ – Don straightened and reached for the pump handle. It was easier than the dreaded alternative. An over-solicitous Charlie was the last thing he wanted right now. He shook the last few drips of gas off the nozzle and headed through the doors to the small market. It was bigger than it looked from the outside with over-loaded shelves and narrow aisles.

The aroma of coffee was pungent and sharp over the icy-cold blast of the air-con. Don muttered a swift prayer of gratitude and made his way to the back of the shop. He stopped just in time and gave a swift hiss of pain as someone brushed up against him. The man stepped out abruptly, around the corner of the aisle, and there was barely enough room for him to pass.

"Hey, sorry, man. Pretty tight in here."

"Yeah," Don stifled a curt response and flattened his hand over his ribcage. There was something familiar about the guy's voice, he half-turned, but the man had gone.

He paid for the gas and two coffees, and made his way outside again, vaguely puzzled, and more than a little annoyed by the lack of assistance from Charlie. "Coffee, Chuck," he passed it through the open window, sounding rather more offhand than he'd intended. "You want some food, then it's up to you. There's a fair selection inside."

Charlie accepted the coffee. He gave a sigh, "I'm not really hungry."

"So, you're not hungry," Don snapped, a trifle acidly. "What's up – you feeling carsick?"

"What? No way - " Charlie sat up a little straighter and focused on him properly for the first time. "No, Don, I'm not feeling carsick. It's just . . . I have something on my mind."

"Care to share?"

"Not here. Not just now, it's not exactly the right time. Maybe later, when we get to the lakeside."

"Okay, suit yourself."

Don swigged back his coffee (it was really quite good) and tried hard to be more sympathetic. He was too tired to push and it was okay by him if Charlie wanted to pout. Must be something quite big - he tried to speculate - by now, he recognised all the symptoms. Whatever quandary was bugging baby brother, hell, he was pretty sure he'd get to hear all the details.

He felt a lot better for the rest stop and more human for the caffeine infusion. Aching muscles began to relax and unwind, he was less sore and more up to speed. It was good to be out in the fresh air again, despite the blast of unseasonal heat. He leaned back against the body of the SUV and tilted his legs out in front of him, basking like a cat in the sunshine, as the warmth soaked through to his bones.

The awareness spread through him slowly. A strange sensation – no, make that a gut instinct. The hairs prickled up on the back of his neck, and he knew he was being observed. He was especially glad of his sunglasses then, as he ran a quick scan of the forecourt. Nothing struck him as being out of the ordinary, but the uneasy feeling endured. There was no particular reason, it was your typical, wayside gas-station. There was a vanload of noisy teenagers and a couple of other small cars.

_Not them_ – but a black Toyota truck, parked across by the in-line pressure gauge. He couldn't recall having seen it before; didn't recognise the California license plates. Don squinted and stared a little harder while trying his best to appear casual. As far as he could tell, there were two men inside - hard to see through the opaque tinted windows. Maybe one was the guy from inside the store; the dude who'd brushed up against him. He'd been tall, Don recalled, and pretty well built, and wearing an old Lakers cap. _Should have looked at his face,_ he berated himself, but he'd been focused on getting to the coffee.

_Too busy worrying about Charlie._

There were a few other things on his mind.

Sunglasses and tinted windows. Their eyes were concealed behind smokescreens. Nonetheless, it was plain, in a flesh-creeping way, that each of them was watching the other. Don frowned, feeling even more ill at ease. Something was off . . . like his earlier reaction. He shivered then, in-spite of the warm day, and it slithered its way down his backbone; all his nerve endings snapping and screaming at him, far too loud and insistent to ignore. He'd been doing his job now, for too many years, not to know when it all felt wrong. Back in the store, the man had been smiling, as though the near confrontation had amused him. Don recalled a vague impression of humour and the odd sense he was being tested in some way.

The man had raised his hackles slightly.

He had a notion their paths had crossed before.

Straightening abruptly, he drained the rest of his coffee, and mashed the cardboard cup between his hands. He would have to by-pass the front of the truck in order to reach the trash. His body baulked at the sudden movement, bruises aching and cracked ribs protesting. He paused then and questioned the wisdom of confronting the two men alone. Before he could take another step forwards, the Toyota gunned up her engine. Don stepped back as it shaved right past him, slowed for a second, and then jerked away. He watched it turn onto the highway and run jaggedly over the kerbside; disproportionately relieved when it picked up speed, and then disappeared out of sight.

"You coming?"

It was Charlie, of course. By now, he'd done with the coffee. He leaned over and spoke through the window, beckoning Don back inside the Suburban. As gestures went, it was a little imperious, and Don choked on a tetchy reply. He took a breath and re-centred his chakras. There was no point getting irate with Charlie. They had at least another thirty miles of road trip, and after that, a good two hour's hike.

"Yeah, just give me a minute."

Retracing his way over the forecourt, he went back inside the little market, snagging hold of some cold roast beef sandwiches, and a couple of bottles of water. His appetite had faded a little; _good old caffeine, the appetite suppressant,_ but they still had a fair trek in front of them, and even Charlie needed to eat. _Charlie_ – Don paused by the different racks of chewing gum, his hand hovering over the packets. His brow furrowed into lines of disquiet.

_What the hell was going on with his brother?_

This trip wasn't turning out quite like he'd planned, and it was all pretty awkward between them. To be honest, he was starting to wonder if he'd made a gigantic mistake. Abstractedly, he picked out some packets of gum and thought back over the recent journey, for a Friday, the roads had been reasonably clear, at least the traffic gods had been on his side. Charlie had quickly damped down any effort to talk, the overt quiet like a barrier between them.

Out of protest, he'd switched the radio on, tuning into a classical station. He couldn't recall when he'd been quite so relieved to sit through an entire Brahms Concerto, but he'd needed its volume to keep his eyes on the road, and its complexity to help clear his head. He hated driving in silence, and today it was harder than ever. A combination of drugs and the come-down from shock, and he'd been finding it tough to stay awake. All in all, it had been pretty hard going, and he was beginning to question why he was here.

Crazy Charlie - his fun-time companion – to be more honest, he was a pain in the ass.

_No, scratch that,_ Don felt a qualm of concern; _he was remote and almost scarily reclusive._ His brother's eyes seemed full of hidden secrets, and there was a hint of deja-vu in the air.

_Just like when he obsessed over the P thing. _

_Not the P thing, dear God, not the P thing._

But it wasn't – and really, he knew it. There was something else troubling Charlie, something bound up with menace and darkness, a strange cold feeling he just couldn't shake. God, this was one weird bitch of a day, with any luck, it could only get better. Once Charlie decided to drift back down to earth and get whatever it was off his chest. _And sooner rather than later,_ he'd had enough of the crippling silence. He felt as though he was poised on the threshold, he just wished Charlie would let him come in.

_What the hell . . ._

Talk about flights of fancy.

He gave a sour smile and made his way to the desk. Could be he'd hit his head on the concrete. Either that, or he was floating in cuckoo land, still hung-over from the cocktail of drugs. He pushed away the sudden frisson of guilt, he was so tired, way beyond the point of weary. His body felt distinctly pissed off with him and he knew he shouldn't really be driving. As for the sense of impending doom – he shook it off, he was merely being cautious. It wasn't like him to be fanciful, it could be dangerous in his line of work.

_Come on, Eppes, get a sense of perspective._

At the end of the day, life had taught him it was better to stick firmly to the facts.

All the same, just to be on the safe side, he laid his purchases down on the counter, did his best to look laid back and nonchalant and spoke directly to the cashier. "The guy just in wearing the Lakers cap – black Toyota with tinted windows. I think maybe I know him from somewhere. He local – have you seen him before?"

"Who's asking?" the old man took his money and looked at him over the register.

Don placed an extra bill on the counter and wished he'd thought to bring his ID. And more than that – _really_, _a hell of a lot more than that_ – he regretted not packing his gun. "I just thought he looked kinda familiar. Had an idea I recognised his face."

The cashier pocketed the extra money and then gave him a more measuring stare. "Maybe you two served together – you know, armed forces, ex-marine corps. I guess it's bin several months now, since Kyle got back from Iraq." He scrutinised Don from under heavy brows and pronounced the country _'Eye–rack.'_

"Ex-marine, huh? That might explain it." Don played along with the charade. "Kyle, yeah, it's on the tip of my tongue. He have another name?"

"Might do - "

The old guy paused, expectantly, his hand resting lightly on the counter. Don reached back into his wallet and slipped him another bill.

"Harrison, Kyle Harrison. Comes from a local family. Old man Harrison died pretty recently, but those kids of his was always kinda wild."

"Harrison," Don repeated it slowly. It didn't ring any instant bells with him. He did a quick, mental sift through some old cases, but couldn't recollect the name. Nonetheless, he was still uneasy, and a devil gnawed away at his memory. There was something – a flickering spark of recognition – it licked around the edge of his subconscious. A dangerous kind of unfinished business. He knew Harrison had felt the same.

"Help you any?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Don smiled his thanks, and walked away from the counter. He could feel the old man's eyes on his back, all the way down the aisle to the doors. He paused just outside the exit, and then reached into his pocket for his cell phone. So, okay, he was off-duty for the weekend, but there was still no harm in being extra cautious.

"Liz, it's Don. Yeah . . . yeah, a little sore. Oh, come on, hey, a few days rest, I'll be right as rain. Listen, I need you to do me a favour. There's a license plate I want you to run . . ."

* * *

Charlie was thirsty and more than a little relieved by the time Don suggested they pull over. He'd been preoccupied, agonising over the thoughts which turned and twisted like a maze in his head.

This weekend _had_ seemed such a good idea.

_What the hell was he going to say?_

It sounded nice and feasible in theory. Him and Don – all alone, just the two of them. A little bonding, some light brotherly banter, and then he would come clean about the tumour. _Talk about dropping the proverbial bombshell._ He'd been working himself up since this morning when he'd first received the news from Doctor Rosen. It had all appeared fine in hypothesis, but in truth, the words stuck in his throat.

_Not his fault,_ he felt a stab of resentment, looking sideways from under his lashes. It had hardly been an auspicious start to the trip when David had driven Don home. His brother was dismissive as usual, shrugging off his concern in an instant. He'd been creased by an indiscriminate bullet which had furrowed a ragged gash across his bicep. Charlie shivered in-spite of the seasonal heat. It was yet another brush with mortality. Just one more salutary reminder of how arbitrary life could be.

Don's job had always freaked him out a little, but he'd gradually learned to live with the anxieties. By now, he'd seen enough of Don in action to know he was good at what he did. The risks were something he'd steadily come to accept, as hard as it had seemed in the beginning, and the passage of time had blunted his fears – filed down the pointed end of his unease.

When they were kids, he'd been in awe of his brother. Back in those days, Don had seemed so invincible. He was confident, a natural sportsman; the epitome of a comic-book hero. But he didn't appear quite so indomitable now. Charlie sneaked another glance sideways. Don's skin was grey, even paler than usual. He looked drained and distinctly dead beat.

He felt a quick pang of compassion. It was a good thing they were near their destination. They'd been on the road several for hours now, and Don clearly needed a break. He was aware that he'd been silent and preoccupied. _Maybe he should have been a tad more sympathetic. _But he was still coming to terms with his shocking news – still reeling from the blow he'd been dealt.

This was never going to be easy. Charlie saw that now, with a jolt of startling clarity. He'd just been handed a possible death sentence, and there were no words to describe how dazed he felt. _Dazed_ – he almost snorted out loud. The damned word was a slight understatement. He tried to sift through the scatter of thoughts in his head. More like dumbstruck and very afraid.

_What would Don do?_

The thought occurred to him suddenly. He watched his brother and considered the question. Right now, it seemed pertinent in more ways than one, as there were times when Don was still an enigma. He could certainly be as stubborn as hell, but at the end of the day he wasn't stupid. However much he might want to protect them, and Charlie knew that was a given, he would respect them enough to be honest and eventually trust them with the truth.

An enigma, but also predictable. Don Eppes, the paradoxical anomaly. His behaviour might be steadfast and reliable, but his feelings and private thoughts were hidden away. Charlie bit back a soft smile. There was a time when he would have resented that; a time it would have caused him deep anxiety and filled him with a driving need to prise open the locks to reveal Don's innermost secrets. _Not any more. _He'd grown stronger since those days. He'd outgrown that fearful sense of near obsession.

Him and Don – they were closer, almost normal. They were good friends as well as brothers. Far more in touch than they'd ever been and their relationship was much stronger now. There were moments when he still found it hard to believe, and he was filled with a sudden wash of fierce gratitude. Whatever fate might be holding in store for him, Don would be right there beside him, no question.

Charlie knew it as surely as night follows day. He could count on his steadfast big brother.

His rock.

For a brief second, he was tempted to blurt out the truth. To get the whole thing over and done with. He took a deep, calming breath through his nostrils, talk about a rush of blood to the head. He knew this was neither the time nor the place. Not here, in the car, while Don was driving. However much the burden pressed down on him, he had to bide his time and wait for the right opening.

And it wasn't now – that much was obvious. Don seemed on edge and totally oblivious. His face was carved into deep frown lines as he flicked his glance back and forth to the rear mirror. It was almost as though someone was following them, Charlie had seen enough movies. He looked back over his shoulder, half expecting to see them being pursued.

The road behind was clear and empty. He had a good view for hundreds of yards. They were winding their way up into the Sierras now, miles from anywhere and off the main highway. He shrugged and shifted back in his seat, perhaps it was Don's FBI training. Must be deeply ingrained – a force of habit to check he was not being tailed.

"You okay?" Don sensed him looking.

"Yeah," it was easy to lie.

"Should be fifteen, maybe twenty minutes," another quick glance in the mirror.

"You must be tired," Charlie acknowledged. "How's your arm? I should have offered to drive."

"It's okay, stopped me from seizing up." Don rolled his shoulders awkwardly. "The arm's good – well, perhaps it stings a little, but what the hell, at least I'm still alive."

Charlie shuddered; he couldn't help it, as Don's words struck a very raw nerve. That was too close to home, in more ways than one. He couldn't even bear to contemplate it. He sat up a little straighter and pushed aside any rogue thoughts of mortality. In Don's case, it was a matter of six inches or so; the distance between bicep and heart. He made a face – he was being theatrical. He knew Don would have worn body armour. The bullet deflected and _'mushroomed out'_ by the woven layers of his bullet-proof vest.

"I don't know how you can be so indifferent. It – it's like you're being dismissive of death."

The words were out before he could help himself, and he regretted them as soon as he'd spoken. He saw Don grow rigid beside him and wished that he'd left them unsaid. _Open mouth and insert foot_ – Charlie mentally berated himself. The last thing he wanted was an argument. Not right now – not on this, of all weekends.

He sighed, "Hey, look man, I didn't mean . . . _I'm really sorry._ I'm feeling more than a little unsettled. It's not everyday you get creased by a bullet, I guess it's left me a touch upset."

"Forget it," the two words were clipped and abrupt, threaded through with a hint of finality. Don was clearly not in a _'group hug' _kind of mood or the right frame of mind for any soul-searching.

Charlie paused, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable, as a shed load of doubts tumbled in on him. He was filled with misgivings and a sudden, swift qualm - _dear God, was he doing the right thing?_

He'd been counting so much on Don's help and support that he'd placed all his eggs in one basket. Perhaps, after all, he should have waited, should have gone first to Amita, even dad. As things stood, he would probably be in trouble. Amita would be hurt – even angry – she might accuse him of a lack of trust. And with hindsight, he didn't much blame her. Not when he put himself in her place.

The whole thing was horribly impossible.

It really was a no win situation.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. The same head which was nurturing a tumour. He felt small and frighteningly insignificant and absurdly like bursting into tears. What price his much vaunted genius now?

_It wasn't going to save him from the cancer._

It was as though the gods were laughing down at him. Enjoying a private joke at his expense. In the end, it was all was all down to the luck of the draw, nothing more than nature's caprice. There was no solution or easy equation. The math couldn't get him out of this one. He was alone and at the mercy of fate, tossed about like a leaf on the wind.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer -** To advise there will be the use of strong language_

**_A/N_ -** _Once again, thanks to all my reviewers, alerters and favouriters - you are all much appreciated. _

_Lisa._

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Three**_

Don sat down with a sigh of relief and took a swig from his bottle of water. For a moment, he felt faintly light-headed, as the trees above him started to sway. He closed his eyes. It was only the wind. It had kicked up a little since they started. He would feel better once he'd rested for a minute or two and then they could continue on their way.

He was an idiot – make that a first-prize idiot – and his body agreed whole-heartedly. He thought longingly of being with Robin - _God alone knew the woman was good for him _- of the gleam in her eyes and her playful smile which brought balm to his restless soul. By all rights, if he was a sensible man, then he should be over at her place, inhaling the light citrus scent of her skin as they lay close in her king-sized bed.

Bones were aching and muscles had seized. His wound stung and throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He felt exhausted and manifestly off colour, but worse of all, he was distinctly out of breath. It was the bruises, he supposed, or perhaps the cracked ribs. Either way, they were causing him problems. For the first time, he acknowledged his stupidity. His chest was hurting more and more with each step.

If he was honest, they ought to have cancelled the trip. He should have stayed at home and taken things easy. And nine times out of ten, he would have done so - been a good boy and done as they'd said. But there was something . . . Don opened his eyes again . . . just something, he couldn't explain it. Maybe call it gut feeling or big brotherly instinct, but he knew, deep down, how much Charlie needed him.

He gave a wry smile, not that you'd know it, of course. His brother was still behaving weirdly. He was spaced out and cocooned in his own little world, acting mighty strangely even for him.

Maybe he'd had a row with Amita? Either that, or he was about to propose to her. Or . . . Don almost choked on his water . . . there was no way it could be _that._ He grinned again, and shook his head. Even Chuck had heard of birth control. He could just see the Old Man's reaction – he'd be stoked, almost rabidly glad.

He took another, more even swallow of water. All the mystery was making him crazy. He would just have to get out the thumbscrews if Charlie didn't come clean real soon. He moved forward and his chest hitched sharply, causing the brief flash of humour to vanish. If he had any sense _he_ should let Charlie know – at least own up and tell him the truth.

He reached down into his pocket and pulled out a packet of Advil. He could cope with the overall discomfort and the pills would take the edge off the tenderness. He'd be okay when they reached the campsite – after all, they would only be fishing. He could drink beer and bask in the sunshine – idle about by the side of the lake. If things got too bad, it was no big deal. They could go home, he wasn't _that _stupid. Well, not entirely, he added a brief caveat, standing up with a grimace of pain.

"You ready?"

He looked over at Charlie and got a jolt of surprise. His brother looked in worse shape than he did. He stared at Don as though he didn't quite know him – eyes unfocused and noticeably wild. For a moment Don forgot all about his own woes and scrutinised Charlie more closely. He hastily revised his earlier flippancy.

_What the fuck was going on here?_

"Hey, bro - "

"Yeah, we should really get going," Charlie recovered in seconds. He swung the heavy pack onto his shoulder and quickly rose to his feet. "It's going to be dark in a few hours time and we still have to set up a campsite."

_So okay, he could take a hint._ Don hesitated, and the moment was lost.

He gave a sigh and followed more slowly, as Charlie marched on ahead, up the trail. There was something unapproachable and completely closed off about the rigid set of his back. Clearly, the demon or whatever damned thing was plaguing him, was causing him real distress. Don's forehead creased as he watched him, any sense of frivolity was gone now. Something was wrong - awfully wrong with Charlie, and he was hanged if he knew what it could be.

_An awareness of foreboding like a beat of dark wings_ - it was the same feeling he'd had back at the garage. For a moment, it surrounded and engulfed him, the cold omen stealing his air.

His cell gave a trill as a text came in. He reached down and took it out of his pocket. The message was pretty much as he'd expected, the information he'd requested from Liz. He let out a breath as he perused it. One he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. The Toyota hadn't been reported as stolen. There were no real surprises here.

It was registered to one Raymond Harrison, and the address was listed as local. He was glad he hadn't wasted his money – it was pretty much as the old guy had said. _Harrison_ – Don wrinkled his brow. The name _still_ didn't mean anything to him. He thought back to their little encounter and frowned. In spite of everything, he knew the man's face. He re-read through the text and double-checked the facts. Raymond must be _'old man Harrison.'_ There was nothing here which helped him unravel the puzzle – _'died recently,'_ the cashier had said.

He'd been uneasy since leaving the gas station, filled with a hunch they were being followed, and he'd almost developed a crick in his neck from checking out the rear view mirror. As far as he knew, there was no cause for alarm. They were alone here and no one had tailed them. He was fairly sure he'd overreacted and gave a quick sigh of relief.

He sent a brief message of thanks back to Liz and asked her to name check Kyle Harrison. He would feel a lot better for knowing and it might help put this baby to bed. A red light appeared on his cell phone display as the signal bars flickered and faded. A few more paces and the cell was unusable, and then they would be on their own. He shaded his eyes and glanced up at the peaks which soared away into the sky all around him. It was always a problem up here in the mountains, so why the hell should it bother him today?

Don shook his head. _God, he was jumpy._ Must be a result of the shooting. Or maybe some sort of latent adrenalin rush which was still playing havoc with his brain. He tried to look at it reasonably. He'd had a shock – it was hardly surprising. It was _'there, but for the grace of God . . .'_ kind of stuff, so no wonder he felt wound-up and antsy.

There were a dozen or so rational explanations, for what had happened back at the gas station.

He'd been doing this job for too many years and it had made him distrustful and wary.

Or conceivably, you could take another angle - _perhaps it had just made him good._

He laughed at himself just a little then, since when did he start thinking in clichés? He was starting to get fucking paranoid, seeing bad guys behind every tree. The explanation was very simple. He was tired and pumped full of analgesics. And now, there was this whole thing with Charlie. He had a sudden shrewd and nagging gut feeling it wasn't going to be a fun-packed weekend.

Talk of the devil – he could no longer see him – this was starting to get very unfunny. Charlie had hiked on out of sight now, disappearing around a bend in the trees. So much for spending their precious down-time together, Don rolled his eyes and picked up the pace.

He'd never been much of one for making a fuss, but he was beginning to feel slightly resentful. More than a tad neglected, in-fact. He'd been shot at, for goodness sakes. A little genuine concern might help things along – might help break down the wall of ice between them. Oh, not the whole, damned mother-hen thing, of course, he wasn't after a pity-party, but maybe one or two words of kindness or some company would actually be nice. Don sighed, and strode forward manfully. There was no point being wussy about it. The whole peace on earth and brotherly love thing – it clearly wasn't going to happen today.

The more he thought about Charlie, the more he realised this was way out of character. He tried to forget he was being ignored as he considered the last few weeks. He'd seen Charlie, what, on maybe three or four occasions, and even then, it had been a touch awkward. There was still plenty of tension left between them; too many subjects to gloss over and avoid.

It was why he had jumped at the chance of this weekend – of two nights alone – just him and Charlie. On the surface, it was the perfect opportunity to talk. A godsend, and boy, did they need it. In-spite of his burgeoning relationship with Robin, and his tentative exploration of Judaism, a part of his life was still absent, and he'd missed spending time with his brother. There had to be some kind of way forward. It was time to call an end to this impasse.

This had all sounded good in theory.

Until Charlie had gone all Lone Ranger.

How the hell was he supposed to fix things when his brother was refusing to talk?

Don slowed as the trail began to ascend. The air was thinner up here in the mountains. His tired lungs were protesting vigorously, and his battered body ached with every step. _Would it hurt too much for Charlie to slow down some, or was he training for the New York fucking marathon?_ By now, Don was finding it hard to keep up and he was starting to feel seriously pissed off.

He was hot and the path was tough-going. His feet slipped on layers of silvery pine needles. The straps of his rucksack cut into his shoulders as he struggled under the weight of his gear. It was his own fault for being so damned stubborn. Okay, scrap that and sub the word stupid, and right now, he was starting to regret it. To bemoan the fact he was even here.

At long last, he reached the top of the gradient and looked back down through the tree line. He could see a glint of metal in the distance. Just a glimpse of the parked SUV. There was something else – he shaded his eyes. It could be another vehicle. He thought about the black Toyota and felt a quick flash of unease.

He was pretty sure they hadn't been followed, but the options around here were limited. They were clearly in the mountains for the weekend and dressed in their fishing gear. You wouldn't have to be Einstein to put two and two neatly together. In the end, it was an obvious banker they would be headed up to one of the lakes. A pinch of luck, a few smarts and a dash of local knowledge – it would be easy to drive ahead and lie in wait.

On the other hand, he could be entirely off beam, perhaps his brush with death had made him delusional. His imagination was working on overtime and the only threat was lurking in his head. It stood to reason there might be other, hard-core fishermen here, even though it was slightly off-season. The summer tourists had returned to the suburbs but the lake was still teeming with trout.

Don squinted down through the canopy of trees, but it was hard to see too much from this distance. The deciduous leaves were turning, tinged with yellow and gold, but they hadn't begun shedding yet. He tried to consider it logically again. There was no reason why the truck might have followed them. A spark of recognition at a gas station didn't mean they were suddenly in danger.

Even so . . .

He re-shouldered his pack and crested the ridge, as he spied Charlie off in the distance. The lake gleamed enticingly in front of him, almost black in the deepening light. Nearly there – he felt a lurch of relief. He willed his tired legs a little faster. The only good thing about reaching the top was that now it was downhill all the way.

Nevertheless, he felt faintly uneasy, but he resolutely tried to ignore it. His priority lay in reaching the lakeside and setting up a campsite before nightfall. On impulse, he pulled out his cell phone. As expected, there was no fucking signal. Another time, and he would have welcomed the remoteness, but right now, he felt horribly exposed.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Charlie sat back and took a long pull of his beer. His eyelids drooped and he felt impossibly drowsy. He hunched into the warmth of his sleeping bag, and looked out across the darkness of the lake. The water was deep and obsidian black, and for some reason, the inky stillness made him shiver. He turned back to the glow of the fireside and stared into the reddening embers instead.

They were camped on the edge of a small, curved beach, overhung by a sheer rock formation. The huge granite boulders loomed high overhead and slid on down into the depths of the lake. There was a ring of scrub and a few small bushes for at least thirty feet all around them. They had chosen the campsite deliberately to keep a watch for any signs of black bear.

Or, at least, that was what Don had said to him, his brother still seemed a trifle antsy; but he was making a conspicuous effort to be nice and there was no reason why he should lie.

Charlie watched him a trifle critically as he walked back across the loose shingle. He'd been secreting the bear-proof canisters down in the rocks at the side of the lake. His steps were slower than usual, and he looked drained and a little pasty. By now, his arm was almost certainly hurting him, and he must be feeling the effects of his wound. Typically, he hadn't mentioned it, in-fact, you might not even realise he'd been injured. It could have been . . ._ should_ have been so much worse, if he hadn't been wearing the vest.

Charlie knew he should probably be more sympathetic, but he was tired and irrationally angry; with Don, and with fate and the whole fucking universe, for pitching him into this mess. He tried to analyse his feelings more reasonably. He was a scientist, a mathematician, but how the hell did one quantify cancer?

_There was a tumour growing inside his head. _

His head – and therein lay the rub. Not his leg nor his lungs or his liver. It had invaded the very organ which defined him, and was threatening to eat away at his mind.

Charlie Eppes had a brain tumour.

The irony didn't escape him.

Who he was and almost everything about him – it all hinged on the use of his genius. _And if it was lost, would he cease to exist?_ Never mind the other question of mortality.

"Hey, bro," Don was noticeably cautious as he sat down by the fire, easing closer with a slight grimace of pain. "That's all taken care of, and with luck, we won't get any furry visitors. We need to stash away the beer when we're finished - I sunk the crate at the edge of the lake."

"I _have _been hiking up here before. Larry and I used to come every spring break. Most of the bears will be starting to hibernate now, so it shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Sorry grandma," Don regarded him with a hint of sarcasm. "I didn't mean to teach you how to suck eggs."

For answer, Charlie flipped him the bird, and then poked at the fire with a stick. He placed his empty bottle down carefully, feeling bellicose and confrontational, hooking the cooler box a little closer, as he reached inside for yet another beer.

"Truth is, Don, you really shouldn't be here, you ought to have gone back to Robin's. What happened today was the perfect excuse - you could have cried off and stayed in LA."

"Know what?" Don shook his head in annoyance. "You've been such a crazy barrel of laughs so far, I'm beginning to wish I had. What the fuck am I supposed to have done to you, Charlie, 'cause let me tell you, I'm damned if I know. First of all, it's the silent treatment, and then you march ahead and leave me on the trail. Oh, don't worry, I get that you're pissed off with me, you couldn't really make it any plainer."

"Sometimes, it isn't about you, Don," Charlie bit back, at once.

"That's a little rich, coming from you, don't you think?"

"Well, I don't know, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

By now, he was burning, incandescent with fury. It raged and flickered through his body, out of nowhere. And as bizarre as it was, it felt pretty good. _In fact, it felt unbelievably great._ His head felt clear - _was clear_ - for the very first time, since receiving his diagnosis this morning. The fierce anger was cleansing, like a bright bolt of light, and right now, he didn't want it to fade. A part of him knew he was being unfair, but all bets were off for the minute. He tossed back his third bottle of beer with a flourish and let the alcohol ignite in his veins.

"Look, Charlie - " Don was frowning at him; he appeared haggard and impossibly careworn. He leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign he was under stress. "I didn't drive all the way up here, just to get into some kind of row with you. If you're having second thoughts, then I get it. Just have the balls to come straight out and say."

"What, no patent Don Eppes lecture this time – no little sermon about me and my bubble?"

Don hesitated and stared back at him in silence, his face carved into deep shadows by the firelight. He shook his head after a few seconds, and then got to his feet, rather abruptly. "I'm not up to dealing with this kind of crap. Sorry, but I'm going to bed now. You'd better safeguard the fire before you turn in. Oh, and hibernating bears or no hibernating bears, don't forget to stow those beer bottles."

"So, what, you're just going to cut and run? My brother, the big, tough FBI superhero? You've always had plenty to say in the past, so come on, don't hold back on me now."

Don paused, and looked over his shoulder, fists clenching in sudden anger. It took a second or two for his hands to relax, a flush of dull colour staining his cheeks. "What the hell do you want from me, Charlie? You drag me all this way, out into the wilderness, just so you can start a fight?"

He was right, of course, Charlie knew he was right. And the whole damned thing was kind of ludicrous. He was picking a major fight with his brother just because it made him feel gloriously alive. He sighed, and ruffled both hands through his hair, the new, shorter hair, shorn off in readiness. This was folly, and he knew he was sabotaging himself - none of his plans were playing out like he'd hoped for.

The weekend was supposed to be conciliatory – maybe some fishing and a whole lot of talking. Two special days spent reconnecting with each other – a little brotherly bonding exercise. He hadn't planned to antagonise Don; it really was the last thing he'd intended . . . but the brief fit of fury had been oddly cathartic. _It had helped re-focus his mind._

Don turned away and lifted the tent-flap. He plainly mistook Charlie's silence for petulance. He made a small face as he ducked under the gap, straightened up, and then disappeared inside.

Charlie lay on his back and studied the night. The air was knife sharp and totally clear. It might be cold up here in the Sierras but the payback was the indigo sky. It was wide and vast and studded with stars, their light white and bright against the firmament. Up in the mountains, he felt much closer to heaven – in the purely physical sense of the word. He watched as a meteor detached and fell, in a split second of shining lucidity. It bounced off the upper regions of the atmosphere and left behind a luminous train.

_Gone_ – all gone - Charlie swallowed hard, he was not in the mood for analogies. It had journeyed for millions of years throughout space, just to burn out in the blink of an eye.

But not lost – _never lost._ Not in essence. In reality, it would live on forever. It was a miracle to think there were traces of stardust - of carbon - in every living cell in his body.

All the cells - even the bad ones.

Even the cancer cells squatting in his brain.

The thought slammed into him, hard, like a truck. Way too much beer, and he began to laugh crazily. If he thought of it in heavenly or celestial terms, then he had rogue stars misbehaving in his head. He liked it, yes, by God, he liked it. Rogue stars sounded better than cancer. From now on, he was tripping on stardust . . . there were whole galaxies revolving in his mind.

There was a footstep close beside him on the shingle – _and_ _Jesus, he hoped it wasn't a black bear. _

He hadn't heard Don come back out of the tent.

_Since when did he move so damned silently?_

He was on his back, still laughing like a maniac – either that, or perhaps he was crying. The canopy of stars blurred above him. He felt the dampness of tears on his cheeks. Dear God, he wasn't – he hadn't meant to do this, to let down his guard quite so completely, but the constraints had been wrenched brutally away by the beer, and he was floundering, out of control.

"Fuck, Charlie, just how much_ did_ you drink?" With rather less than his usual grace, Don eased down on the shingle beside him. He half-pulled, half-hauled Charlie upright again, and left a concerned hand in place upon his bicep. "_What the hell_ – okay, it's time to come clean. Might as well front up and tell me, we both know there's something weird going on with you. Better spill, Chuck, 'cause I want the truth."

"_Something weird_ – yeah, right," he continued to laugh, because in a way, it _was_ kind of funny. One gigantic, cosmic payback, for all those lost weeks he'd spent out in the garage. "Can't get much weirder than cancer."

"What?" Don's voice was razor-sharp, as the clear, white lights in the sky. His body became tense with sudden concern, as his grip tightened around Charlie's arm.

This then, was the big moment of truth - the culmination of all his anxieties. If he was wrong - what if he'd made a bum call - perhaps he'd overestimated his big brother. All of a sudden, he was stone cold sober, as the world slipped and tilted on it's axis. The galaxies, whether rogue or otherwise, stopped pin-wheeling and imploded, instead.

Charlie took a hollow breath and prepared himself. "I said, _you can't get much weirder than cancer."_

"Cancer – what the fuck are you talking about? I mean cancer . . . my God, Charlie, not you?"

"I saw the specialist early this morning. He confirmed I have a tumour in my head."

"A tumour," Don baulked, and shook his own head in rebuttal. "No, wait - that doesn't mean you have cancer. It doesn't mean the thing is malignant, most tumours turn out benign."

"Mom's wasn't."

The words hung suspended between them. Heavy as lead - overwhelming and irrefutable. They were exact and searingly painful, and the weight of them could not be denied. Charlie slumped then, and lay back in silence. The cool detachment was seeping back through him; he could feel it, almost regard it from a distance, slowly wrapping cold fingers around his bones. He was aware he'd dropped one hell of a bombshell and knew Don was struggling to process it. It both reassured and terrified him – this feeling of impassive control. Don took a deep breath, and exhaled through his nose. For a second, Charlie thought he was shaking. It was strange, even a trifle disconcerting, to see his brother striving for control.

"But Charlie, it doesn't mean yours is. How can they know yet for definite? They need to take a biopsy or something, get a sample, a closer look at the cells."

"They're operating first thing Monday morning. I guess then we'll know for sure."

Another silence, and then Don spoke quietly. "Have you told anyone else about this . . . dad or Amita, even Larry? You should have said something to someone – you should have let us help you with this."

A beat, and he was forced to look away. "Don - "

"My God, you haven't, have you?"

"I couldn't," Charlie felt a hitch in his throat. "There was no point until I knew for certain. I didn't want to upset them with something that might not even exist."

"So you were, what, gonna wait to the last minute before exploding this little bombshell? Drop it casually into the conversation, and hope maybe, they wouldn't freak? _Oh, by the way, dad, I'm going for surgery, and the doctors say I might have cancer?"_

"I didn't want you all to worry about me. I was scared – I suppose I didn't think."

Don jerked his hand away from his arm. "Too right, Chuck, there's no way you were thinking."

"You're angry - why are you angry?" Charlie's voice faltered, pathetically, and a cold wash of misery flooded him. "Please, Don, I know it was stupid, but this time, I wasn't in denial. I suppose I - I just didn't want to share it until I knew for sure it was real."

"It's not . . . you're wrong, I'm not angry, but damn it, I just wish you'd trusted me."

"Believe me, it was never a question of trust. It was more a case of hoping I was wrong. I suppose that's why I'm telling you now – before anyone else gets upset. It's not fair, but I need you beside me, to help shoulder a little of my burden."

"What can I do? God, you know I'll do anything. Anything that's humanly possible."

"When we get home, Sunday evening, I want you there when I put them in the picture. I guess they're going to be hurt and afraid for me . . . and, oh God, I'm so worried about dad. Please, Don, you're the _only_ one I trust with this. _I need your strength._ I can't do it alone."

He waited for what felt like an eternity, as Don sat silently and still as stone beside him. His brother was wrapped in a brown study, face mask-like and clearly upset. It was odd looking at it from this side of the fence - in a bizarre kind of way, almost easier. He still remembered the terrible day when they'd received the news of mom's diagnosis. It was pretty obvious, he thought, that Don did too. It seemed an age before he spoke again.

"It's okay, buddy, I'm right here beside you. We'll get through – no, _you're _gonna get through this." Don slipped his good arm around Charlie's shoulders, and drew him closer into a tight hug. "Whatever you need from me . . . _anything,_ you know it. There's no way you're gonna do this alone."

_**TBC**_

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**_Disclaimer:_** _There will be the use of strong language in this chapter_

**A/N:** _Once again, I'd like to thank you all for reading and reviewing this story._

_Lisa._

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Four**_

_Well, so much for sleeping – it was out of the question – and who the hell needed it anyway? _

Don lay wide awake in the darkness and drew his sleeping bag up to his chin. There was a sharp hint of autumnal chill in the air and he was glad of the comforting fleece. His muscles ached with cold and fatigue, and in reality he was feeling dead beat. Now, if only his brain would cotton onto the fact, then just maybe he might get some sleep.

Impossible – he knew it was impossible.

Charlie's bombshell had seen to that.

Don felt a sudden tightening of fear as he listened to his brother's soft snoring. He was relieved and not a little resentful that Charlie was so easily oblivious, a sufficient combination of beer and emotion, and he was out like the proverbial light.

_Lucky Charlie._

Don was gripped with a deep feeling of panic, and a sense of approaching anxiety. He couldn't believe this was happening again. Not now, when they were starting to mend. Sure, the pain had taken a long time to heal, and the wounds weren't completely scarred over, but there was a definite light at the end of the tunnel, and they were beginning to recover from mom's death. Or, at least they were as a family - he wasn't qualified to speak for the others - but he'd become quite adept, on a personal level, at coming to terms with the pain.

_Cancer_ – the two syllables taunted him. The quintessence of all his worse nightmares. It ran round like a broken record stuck on endless repeat in his brain. He clung onto the thought that it wasn't confirmed and they wouldn't know for sure until Monday. Wouldn't know if the cells were malignant until they looked inside Charlie's head.

Nonetheless, Charlie seemed certain enough, as though the tumour was a definite death-sentence. He was acting as though it was crystal-clear and his fate was already written in stone. Don shivered and it wasn't because of the cold. He was seized with a feeling of presentiment. Whether the cells were malignant or not, the tumour must be potentially dangerous. For God's sake, he was no medical expert, but in this case, he didn't have to be a genius - no way in heaven could it be all that good to slice into somebody's brain.

He felt ashamed of his earlier conduct. All taciturn and pissed off and snarky. He'd been sore and obsessed with Kyle Harrison, and if he was honest, feeling slightly hard done by. He was weary, all his muscles protesting, he'd been shot at and hit by three bullets. In the scheme of things, it was hardly surprising, he'd been a little fixed and focused inwards on his pain. Charlie's behaviour had been driving him crazy and he'd ascribed it to some general form of pissiness, but he wasn't entirely whiter than white, and it hurt now he knew the truth.

He figured in the whole cosmic design of things, his little brother had a damned good excuse.

God, he'd done all he could, under the circumstances, feeling inadequate and worse than useless. He'd listened and made Charlie some promises that he hoped he'd be able to keep. He wanted, so much . . . to show that he cared, that he would be there, for every step of the journey. The last year and the friction between them, his stomach churned as he recalled all the details, and then the sharpness of betrayal eased away from him; it meant nothing in comparison to this.

It was hard, so hard not to think about mom, not to remember her frail courage and suffering, all those days and nights of witnessing her torment - of listening as she cried out in agony. She'd fought and struggled to maintain the facade, in front of dad, and especially Charlie, as though the act was her final endowment, a last gift to help ease their pain. His throat tightened with the threat of long-buried tears, with the old anguish of well-suppressed heartache. The thought of it happening all over again was like some form of twisted nightmare.

And to Charlie . . . of all people, _Charlie._

The whole thing seemed mighty unfair.

Don shifted and frowned into the darkness, as he considered his latest brush with mortality. There was some sort of horrible irony here, bearing in mind what _he_ did for a living. He'd faced his own fears a long time ago, and death was something he'd come to terms with. The dark shadows always danced in the background, just out of sight, on the periphery of his vision. It was all very well staring death in the eye – _he had no qualms about facing the reaper_ - but contemplating the death of a loved one, well, _that_ was a whole different ball-game.

Him and Charlie, it hadn't always been perfect.

Not by any means, if he was brutally honest.

Until the clearance thing, they'd been getting a lot closer.

He wasn't ready to give up on him yet.

And so, they'd sat there and watched as the fire died down, drinking beer and talking things over. Endeavouring to agree on the easiest way of breaking the bad news to dad. _Easiest way – hah, well, that was a laugh._ Nothing about this whole thing was easy. But they'd agreed to head back home in the morning, and to be honest, Don was glad.

_God, he was sore._

He shifted again, but the ground was hard, and sleep was hard to pin down and elusive. There was a rock digging into his hip-bone and he needed to go take a leak. He struggled to sit up, and bit back a groan, as his chest muscles tightened in protest. He stayed still for a while and tried to breathe through the hurt, while bracing his hand on his breastbone. It took several, uncomfortable minutes, for the pain and constriction to ease.

He took a gulp of water from his hip-flask and swallowed back a couple more Advil. The truth was, he needed something stronger, they'd stopped working a long time ago. It wasn't easy wriggling out of his sleeping bag, but he managed it without waking Charlie. He looked down at the short mass of tangled curls, a sudden, sentimental lump in his throat. _God, if anyone needed to sleep . . ._

Don made a face, _not that he didn't, of course_, his whole body was wracked with tiredness, on the other hand, he might as well wish for the moon. His brain was buzzing and totally jazzed.

He straightened up, and lifted the tent-flap, despite the cold, it was a beautiful night. Standing still for a moment, he took a deep breath, the sharp air searing down into his lungs. An owl hooted off in the pines to his right, but the rich silence was profound, almost impenetrable. He was a city boy, no doubt about it, but he loved it out here, in the wild. It was always the quiet which affected him the most, maybe that, and the vast grandeur of the sky. Something about the solitude and splendour which made him feel a little closer to God

He made his way down to the side of the lake, boot soles slipping and crunching on the shingle. The moonlight danced off the surface of the water and played shadowy tricks with his eyes. He paused, feeling suddenly uneasy, as his earlier qualms came back to haunt him. For a moment, he could have sworn something shifted as he bypassed the huddle of rock.

_Nothing._

He came to a halt and listened hard, but the blackness remained deep and unmoving. A bear wouldn't creep around on tippy-toe, and Don worried about the alternative. He still hadn't discarded his earlier disquiet, even though all common sense bet against it. He was filled with a nasty feeling that Harrison might have followed him up here.

Two whole minutes, and a load of nothing later, he wiped his brow and figured he was seeing things. He continued on down to the water's edge and relieved himself as nature intended. It was then he heard the clatter of pebbles. The soft slip of a foot on the shingle. He barely had time to pivot, or lift up his head, before being charged off his feet into the lake.

The breath left his body in an explosion of air, as he was carried down under the surface. He flailed desperately, searching for purchase, as the icy water flooded his lungs. A strong hand clamped hard around his windpipe, forcing him down even deeper. He lunged forwards, fighting back desperately, and head-butted his attacker on the nose. The hand loosened and he jerked to the surface, feet scrabbling against the loose pebbles. He heaved himself out of the water, and half-crawled, half-staggered onto the beach.

He barely made it another two feet before a sinewy hand wrapped around his ankle. The grip threw him wildly off-balance, and he crashed forwards onto his face. A hard tug on his leg yanked him down again and he felt the sharp bite of freezing water. He was already breathless and gasping with cold . . . he was _not_ going back into the lake. Digging his free foot into the shingle, he half managed to flip himself over. It arrested his slide at the waters-edge and gave him a moment of grace.

Not much – but a few, precious seconds – both to regroup and hoist himself up again. Enough time to focus his vision and re-gather his scattered wits. His attacker became more than substance then, and he saw the man's face in the moonlight. He should have listened to his trusty gut instinct; _it was Harrison – just as he'd thought. _There was no time for self-recrimination just yet. He lashed out and kicked his leg upwards. There was a satisfying thunk of boot against bone as it smashed into Harrison's chin.

"Fuck you!"

The man was on him again, in an instant, but Don rolled sideways and stumbled to his feet. He bent low, into a fighter's stance as they circled each other warily.

"Harrison - " the man's face flickered in surprise at the use of his name, and Don quickly pressed home the advantage. "Whatever this is, better give it up now. I spoke to my people already. Anything stupid happens, and they know you were on my tail."

In a way, it was true – or at least some of it was - he'd asked Liz to do a bare minimum. But he knew he was clutching at straws here, and pinning his hopes on fresh air.

Harrison snorted, and put his head down. He didn't appear all that worried. He drove into Don like a linebacker and bowled them both onto the ground. This time, Don was more prepared for him, his weight shifting to one side at the last second. Nonetheless, he felt something give way in his chest, the snap of a rib under stress. He locked his right arm around Harrison's neck, arched his back and absorbed the blow. They rolled over, grappling and punching, each of them fighting for purchase. Don's resistance owed a lot to his training as he kept his opponent in close. Their eyes locked for a second, fuelled up and intent, and amazingly, Harrison laughed at him. It was then, Don recalled, with a hint of dismay, that the man was an ex-marine.

He dropped his arms and struck back savagely, first with one elbow and then the other – knew a moment of brief satisfaction, as he caught the man square on the nose. He followed through with his fists, and heard a quick grunt of pain, rolling away as the grip on him loosened. He only just staggered back up to his feet before Harrison rushed him again. Dipping his hip, he swerved to one side; somehow, _anyhow, _he had to stay vertical. He wasn't up to close-quater combat right now - his damaged ribs hitched and stung with each breath.

Harrison paused; he seemed terminally amused, and his teeth flashed white in the moonlight. "You're making this a whole lot more fun than I'd thought. You know what, Eppes, not bad for a Fed."

Don's mind raced through the meagre options. Right now, he was at a disadvantage, and they looked pretty thin on the ground. He ignored the jibe - so the punk knew his name. _It came as no real surprise._ "Give it up, man, before it gets out of hand."

"Like, I'm scared – see how much I'm trembling?" Harrison shook with mock-sarcasm. "It ain't like you can call for back-up this time. Fuck, Eppes, I'm pissing my pants."

Don went for the stall. "Should I remember you? You seem to think this should mean something. See, my job what it is, what I do everyday, I don't recall every scum-bag I meet."

It was part-bravado, part-fury, but Jesus, he should learn to keep his mouth shut. Harrison stiffened with anger, but at least it wiped the smirk off his face. Don continued to watch him warily, well aware that at long last, he'd needled him. He was glad to see the man had stopped smiling; it was starting to get on his nerves. _He didn't want this – didn't have time for it._ Not right now, after Charlie's revelation. If he was packing his gun it would be finished by now. Life was complicated enough as it was.

_There was something_ . . . what was it Harrison had said?

About him calling for back-up _this time_.

Which implied there had been another time – but for the life of him, he couldn't recollect. He racked his brains, as they circled one another, trying hard to sift through his memories. Old cases and endless mug-sheets, lists of collars and recent arrests. No good, there was nothing – _nothing at all_ – but Harrison remained stubbornly familiar.

_Oh, God_.

He was slow and way too stupid for words. The world lurched and spun as he remembered. _Charlie_ – he looked up with a sick twist of fear. There'd been two guys in the truck back at the gas station. He hoped – make that _prayed hard_ against all probability that Harrison had trekked up here alone. Okay, the man thought he had a score to settle. He was clearly on some kind of revenge kick. The fact he was prepared to take it this far showed he didn't plan on taking any prisoners. Don took a pace backwards, and ran through the odds. They were not weighted down in his favour. There was no sign that Charlie was even awake, and Harrison was between him and the campsite.

"You got bad manners, Eppes," the man spoke again. The air of false bluster had gone now. He was angry and looked full of menace as he edged in closer again. Without ever taking his eyes off Don, he reached down for a fist-sized pebble. He was full of intent and no compromise as he hefted the rock in his hand. "Think I need to help jog your memory."

Don knew he was trapped; there was no place to go, other than back into the water. He moved sideways and tried to circle. To shift them away from the lake. He made a quick scan of the surrounding terrain, frustrated by the darkness and shadows. There was no sign of anyone else yet - he didn't know if that was good or bad. He didn't want Charlie caught up in all this, but too late, there was no other option. He should have been more alert – way more vigilant. _It was his job to keep them both safe._

"Charlie," he called out, and kept his voice steady. "Charlie, wake up, you okay?"

"Ain't no good hoping he'll be any help." Harrison took another step closer. "See, _Charlie's_ a little tied up now. He's having his own private party back there, courtesy of my brother, Jake."

"Charlie!" Don saw white in a flash of sheer rage, and he inhaled sharply with fear. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Harrison. "I'll kill you if you've hurt him."

He forgot about the rock in the other man's hand, and forgot about the ache in his chest. Adrenalin gave him a head-rush of strength, and he leapt forwards, determined to use it. He wrong-footed Harrison this time, and the sudden charge took him by surprise. Don ducked in, under the first swinging blow, and twisted the man's arm up behind him. He held it there, tight, in an implacable lock, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. Harrison's own training kicked in then, and he attempted the standard, counter rotation. But Don was ready and waiting; he forced the man's elbow down hard.

"Drop it!"

He pressed harder, using his body-weight, putting pressure on the already stressed joint. The rock slid from Harrison's fingers and he gave a quick grunt of pain.

"Fuck, Eppes, you're gonna regret this."

"Yeah? Know what, I don't think so." Don pulled back on the arm for more leverage, and pushed Harrison forward with his knee. "_In-fact _- " he ground the man's face into the shingle; " – it's giving me a whole lot of pleasure."

"Don?" It was Charlie's voice, reedy and high. He sounded shit-scared and uncertain. "_Oh, God, Don,_ I'm really sorry."

Don knew then – knew it was over. He looked up in dismay, his heart sinking. The other guy thrust Charlie towards them. He was holding a gun to his head.

Harrison gloated. "Seen enough, Eppes? My bro, Jake here – he's always been kinda clumsy. All it takes is one slip of the finger, and_ bam_ . . . you get to scoop your friend's brains off the ground."

Jake grinned, and tightened his grip on the gun, as though giving the words some extra emphasis. Charlie blenched as the muzzle shifted, and Don decided he'd seen enough.

"He's not part of this, Harrison," he released the man's arm, straightened up and rose to his feet. "Whatever it is – it's between you and me. Don't make things worse than they already are."

The first blow sent him reeling backwards - the next one caught him a bruising, dead-centre. He barely had time to hunch over in pain before Harrison hit him again. The fourth blow glanced off the side of his head – stunningly hard – he was guessing the pebble. He was down then, protecting his ribcage from kicks, as he choked and floundered for air.

Looked like Harrison wasn't too worried, and to be honest, Don didn't blame him.

He curled into the foetal position, and ducked his head down on his chest.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Charlie awoke with a palpable jerk, snatched rudely from the soft realms of slumber. He raised his head, and blinked with bewilderment, still half-confused and foggy with dreams. Don had been right after all, there was a bear in the tent. A great, lumbering black shadow. It loomed over him, scarcely discernable, a huge figure outlined against the canvas.

He froze, his breath catching in terror, and looked over to where Don was lying. He could see his brother's sleeping bag was empty. _He was alone in the tent, with a bear. _Charlie's throat closed, he was suddenly wide awake, trying to run through the gamut of options. But before he could marshal his scattergun thoughts, the bear bent down and laughed in his ear.

Not a bear then.

And not his brother.

As laughs went, it was not very pleasant.

The hair prickled up at the nape of his neck. _On the whole, he'd have preferred the bear._

"Keep it quiet."

The man spoke before he could, nudging a gun at the side of Charlie's forehead. The lousy metaphor didn't escape him – another bullet, and it was only too real. "What do you want?" he defied the order – the words tumbled out before he could help it. There was no easy equation to cover this, and he wasn't good at doing as he was told.

"_I said_, keep it quiet," the gun pushed harder. "You're gonna find out real soon."

Charlie skimmed his hand into the sleeping bag, taking advantage of the syrupy darkness. His cell phone was tucked under his makeshift pillow, so he slid it down and pushed it in his sock. He wondered where the hell Don was, and hoped that his absence was a good thing. It occurred then, his assailant was biding his time, and the thought did _not_ auger well. He had to warn Don. He took a deep breath, but somehow, the man sensed his movement. A brawny forearm pressed hard against his windpipe, and a gloved hand clamped over his mouth.

"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up. Don't try it again, do you hear me?"

The downward pressure closed his throat up completely, and Charlie thrashed and struggled for air. Still trapped and cocooned in his sleeping bag, he was totally at the other man's mercy. His chest heaved, and he lashed out ineffectively, hands clawing and legs drumming in panic. The arm was removed just as suddenly – but the hand remained over his mouth.

He was forced to comply, and do as he was told. Apparently, the man was deadly serious. He made a valiant effort to calm himself down, taking great draughts of air through his nose.

"That's better," undoubtedly, the man was enjoying this. His gloved fingers rasped across Charlie's lips. "Now, be a good little boy, and wait your turn."

Charlie lay still in an agony of dread, the gun pressed up hard against his temple. He knew they were in desperate trouble, and that it was something to do with Don. He tried to look at things rationally; perhaps his brother had already made it to safety. It was all very well in theory, but he knew Don would never abandon him. He would rather cut off his arm with a spoon then leave Charlie out here on his own, and then the sudden sound of voices raised in anger put a swift end to that brief hope.

Don was down by the lake, but he wasn't alone. His captor clearly had a confederate. Their words carried distinctly through the crisp mountain air, brutally raised, and harsh with threats. Charlie strained hard and tried to listen. Both men were insulting each other. There was something about calling for back-up, and then he heard Don shout his name.

"Get up!"

The '_bearman'_ hissed at him, and Charlie scrambled out of the sleeping bag. The cell phone pressed hard against his ankle, a rectangular bulge in his thick sock.

"My hiking boots - " he reached across for them, and amazingly, the man didn't stop him. He pulled them on, fingers slipping and fumbling, the high ankle supports concealing the cell phone.

Bearman grabbed hold of his collar and he didn't have time for the laces. The gun was back in place at his temple as he was thrust forward, out of the tent. They staggered down to the lakeside and Charlie's heart rose for a brief second. There'd obviously been a fight of some kind and it looked like his brother had won.

Don was kneeling astride a stranger who lay face down on the shingle. As they got closer, Charlie saw, with a jolt of surprise, that both men were soaking wet. They'd been thrashing it out on the thin strip of beach awfully close to the edge of the water. At some stage, during the violent struggle, he guessed, they must have taken an impromptu dip in the lake.

Before he had time to process much more, bearman jabbed him with the gun, and shoved him on again. "Keep walking."

His heart gave a twist of terror as he realised the deadly implications. Don's hollow victory was meaningless – for as long as _he _was being held at gunpoint. He stumbled, and his boot soles slipped on the pebbles. For a second, he almost lost his footing. Bearman kept a tight hold on his collar and hauled him back up to his feet.

"Say something."

The man gave his collar a brutal twist, bunching his shirt into a knot against his windpipe. Charlie yelped, and tried to lean into the hold, as the taut fabric wrenched against his flesh.

"Don?" His voice sounded awful, partly damaged. Unlike his own, and a whole lot, shit scared. "Oh, God, Don, I'm really sorry."

Time appeared to stand still for a moment. Don raised his head and their eyes met. The sense of conflict in the air was almost tangible and then it was replaced with dismay. Charlie tried to signal how sorry he was, _this was his fault_ – distress flooded through him. He'd literally been caught napping, and now there was a price to be paid.

The man on the ground was laughing at them. His voice thick and oily with mockery. He was speaking now, positively gloating, as Don released him and climbed to his feet. Bearman – _or better_ _make that Jake _– was also pretty pleased with himself. He rocked forwards on his toes, in anticipation, and his raspy chuckle huffed in Charlie's ear.

Don answered, but his eyes clung to Charlie's, as though sending him some kind of message. To do _whateve__r_ – promise _whatever it takes_ – just for God's sake, get out of this alive. Charlie swallowed hard, and half-nodded, to show he'd understood what Don was saying. He would do anything they required of him, albeit with a slight caveat. Him and Don, they were in this - whatever _this _was, two rather sorry-looking musketeers, together. It was the old _'together we stand, divided we fall'_ thing, just like it had been back in High School. Don would kick ass and save him from the bullies, and then snipe at him, non-stop, for days.

So, just one stipulation, Charlie set his jaw.

There was no way he was abandoning his brother.

He watched as the second man got off the ground, and the change in his demeanour was frightening. Charlie cried out in sudden warning, as he hefted a rock in his hand. Don stood, pale-faced in the moonlight, his dark eyes resigned and steady, but he was powerless, rendered defenceless, for as long as Jake still held the gun.

"No, please, no!"

Charlie cried out in sheer anguish, as he witnessed the attack on his brother, both sobbing and swearing in an agony of fear, as he forgot all about his own danger. The stars spun above him in a vortex of light, a mad cacophony of blood, sweat and terror, and the sky splintered into white nightmare, as the man launched a frenzied assault.

Don was down now, lying hunched on the shingle. The man was taunting him – laughing like a lunatic. He was kicking him . . . dancing round him and kicking him . . . in the small of his back, in his ribs.

"Stop, please - oh God, enough!"

Charlie raged and fought, _he pleaded,_ but both men completely ignored him. He struggled, but his efforts were futile. Jake cuffed him hard, then pinned him back against his chest.

"Hell, yeah!" the man leaned forward and rested his hands on his hips. He took a breath and paused for a moment, still out of breath from all his exertions. "Man, you have no idea how good that felt."

"He dead?" Jake was sullen and disappointed, as though he'd sought in on the action. He sulked like he'd drawn the short straw, and wanted his own pound of flesh. He let go of Charlie's collar, and flung him roughly away from him, lowering the gun as he did so, and glaring at the other man again. "Kyle, you promised we'd make him pay . . . I sure hope he ain't dead yet."

"Nah, don't worry, you'll get some fun later, a tough, sonofabitch like him." Kyle – or _Harrison, as Don had called him_ - straightened up, and walked in their direction. He tossed the rock, almost as an afterthought, leaving Don behind him, motionless on the shingle. "Come on, Jake, better make yourself useful. It's time for us to do a little celebrating. Move your ass on down to the water's edge; they kindly stashed us some beers in the lake."

Charlie stepped forward. "Let me go to him. You said he's alive – let me see."

"Whoa, there," Harrison smirked, and put a hand on his chest, his eyes all over him in quick appraisal. "Two guys in a tent, that's kinda cosy, you being here really did us a favour. In-fact, we couldn't a done it without you. Which leaves me just one, little question . . . so come on, _Charlie_, tell me - you his bitch?"

"He's my brother." Charlie looked back at him with utter contempt - the words both hurt him, and made him feel proud.

The little show of defiance didn't change anything, and in the end, his pride meant nothing. He was alone, miles from anywhere, and at the mercy of two madmen.

Don lay bloodied and unmoving on the ground.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: -** _A language warning, once again, and I've thought a little bit about this . . . but these are violent men doing violent things in difficult and desperate situations . . ._

**A/N: -** _Glad to say the site got fixed just in time for me to get this posted **almost** on schedule. So, here we are, and here we learn all about actions and consequences . . . butterfly wings beating in forests, and other such imponderable things . . ._

_Many thanks, as ever,_

_Lisa._

**________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Five **_

_**Bakersfield - 4 Years ago . . . **_

_What the hell had possessed him to do this? _

He was already regretting the decision. The traffic had been tight and slow moving, grinding up through the meandering grapevine, and he gave thanks to the great god of air con; it was a white-hot, 110 degrees in the shade. It had all seemed so different this morning, and he'd been glad to escape from the office. He'd been antsy, frustrated and bored to tears, snowed under a damned, mountain of paperwork.

It wasn't much, just a minor discrepancy. He'd been going over some old witness statements. Someone needed to drive up to Bakersfield and re-run part of an interview again. Normally, he would have assigned it. There was no way it was a priority. But it meant getting out of the office, so he'd pulled rank and grabbed it with both hands.

He'd made pretty good with the witness and ironed out the slight inconsistency. Right now, he was in search of a gas station, a cup of coffee and something half-decent to eat.

The convenience store was at the side of the road. A mini-market with its own liquor license. Don pulled into the lot on the corner and stepped out into a wall of burning heat. He paused in the shade of the SUV – mopped his brow and hitched up his shirt sleeves. He'd discarded his jacket and holster in preparation for the long drive home.

He stood back and held the door for a young woman heavily laden down with toddlers and shopping. She gave him a small smile of gratitude and continued across to her car. His shirt was already stuck to his back but it was blessedly cool inside the market. He was in no particular hurry as he dawdled slowly down the empty aisles.

He was standing by the deli at the rear of the store when he first heard the sounds of commotion. He reached for his gun out of instinct, and then realised he'd left it locked inside the car. He crouched low behind the display counter and peered down towards the checkout. The cashier was being held at gunpoint by two guys in gorilla masks.

_God, they must have been sweltering inside them. _

The incongruity might have been funny, in-fact, it might have been fucking hilarious.

If it hadn't been for the tight situation, or the fact they were both wielding guns.

There were two other customers inside the store, both of them up by the checkout. A Mexican woman on the verge of hysterics and another, much older man. The deli counter was at present unattended. Don guessed the server was on lunch-break. He took a quick look around him and weighed up the state of affairs.

The two robbers were bold and pretty sure of themselves as they ripped out the contents of the registers. It would be dumb – little short of suicidal to risk a one man rescue attempt. He reached down to his belt and flipped open his cell before dialling the local police department. He spoke quietly, keeping it short and to the point, as he up-dated the operator. No one was hurt and no shots had been fired yet. With any luck, it would stay that way.

With any luck . . .

So much for playing the odds.

It looked like the gods weren't listening. Don sat there and watched from his vantage point as the cashier made a grab for a gun. The Mexican woman collapsed with a high-pitched scream as one of the robbers pulled the trigger. They heard the wail of approaching sirens as the would-be hero slumped to the ground.

"Jesus!" The shorter guy turned on the shooter in panic. "You shot him – you goddamn shot him!"

"Shut up, Wayne – shut the fuck up!"

The other man was in no mood for compromise, and to be honest, Don couldn't blame him. He'd just burned all of their bridges, and in a heartbeat, things had turned sour. He grabbed hold of the hysterical woman and pressed the point of the gun to her head.

Don raised his hands high and moved quickly. Time to refocus the gunman's attention. The last thing he wanted or needed was another useless death on his hands.

"Hey, don't shoot - " he took a few more steps forward. "The cops are here, man, don't do anything crazy. There's no need for anymore gunfire. If you hurry, you can make it out back."

"Who the fuck are you, and where did you come from?"

The taller man looked at him over the gun. He let go of the sobbing woman. She immediately pressed her hands to her chest and sank down on her knees to the ground.

"Stay cool, I'm unarmed," he kept walking forward. "I was caught at the rear of the shop."

"Hold it right there!" Tall Guy locked eyes with him. "The sirens – you call the cops?"

Don kept his voice level. "Does it matter? More to the point is they're here. You're masked – we can't pull you from a line-up. Call it quits and go while you still can."

"He's right," the other guy was desperate and scared. He lifted a carrier bag full of money. "You heard him, there's still time, we can make it if we leave through the back of the store."

Don waited as the sirens got closer. He did not like the way this was going. The safety window was slamming shut on his fingers as the BPD squad cars drew near. He was banking on their local knowledge combined with standard procedure. They wouldn't charge in through the front with guns blazing, with any luck, they would cover the rear exits. If this turned into a messy hostage situation, he had a feeling it would all end in tears.

"You're right – you can't pull us from no line-up." Tall Guy stood directly in front of him. "But there's one thing you oughta remember, _cop _– I sure as hell have seen _your _face."

Their eyes held, and the threat was implicit. For some reason, Don sensed the truth of it. He stared back at the man behind the god-awful mask, and knew then he meant what he said.

They stood in silence for another few seconds, the gun resting flush against his sternum. Don waited, his breath cold as ice in his throat, while he stayed still and tried not to flinch. Something changed – something indiscernible – and he knew then, the balance had shifted. The robber's eyes hardened like agate. He tightened his grip on the gun.

Don spoke softly. "Don't do it, man, don't pull the trigger. Think about it, don't be an idiot. You shoot me and everything's over and done. Get out while you still can."

"Let's go - " the other guy – _Wayne _– grabbed hold of Tall Guy's sleeve. "Come on, leave him, we don't have no options."

There was an instant – the briefest fraction of a second when Don still thought he was a dead man. Just a flicker of hesitation and then the moment was gone.

"_Fuck you - "_

Tall Guy lifted the gun, efficiently, _brutally_ . . . and backhanded him across the face. They were gone then, headed out towards the back of the store, as the cops burst in and swarmed through the front entrance. Don stayed down to avoid any confusion; heart racing and hammering up against his rib-cage. He was alive by the narrowest of margins, and didn't plan on being gunned-down by mistake. His cheekbone throbbed in time to his pulse-rate, and he tasted blood from the painful split on his lip.

There was a flurry of shots from outside the store, and he figured the two guys didn't make it. He shook off an officer's offer of help and made it back up to his feet. He swayed for a second and then took a deep breath, his adrenalin levels still soaring. It was just over fifteen minutes since he'd first set foot in the store.

Wayne had died almost instantly, cut down in a hail of gunfire. The cashier survived and they recovered the money, but Tall Guy, on the other hand, escaped.

Don spent the rest of the day going over it again, writing it down in a meticulous statement.

_With no valid means of identification, Tall Guy had gotten clean away . . ._

* * *

**_Now . . . _**

He awoke with a jolt, but the dream was still vivid. Don gave a small jerk of pain as he remembered. Harrison – Harrison was Tall Guy. In a tangled way, it made horrible sense. He hadn't really been involved in the enquiry, but his statement had been used at the inquest. Bakersfield PD had kept him informed regarding the details of the case.

The ground was hard and his head hurt. There was something else he'd forgotten. Something fundamental and significant. God, he wished he could recollect . . .

"Easy Don."

It was a hand – but very different to last time, concerned and trembling slightly with anxiety; a soft span of fingers carding gently through his hair, and then cradling the side of his face. The tips of those same fingers were frozen as they rested on the pulse point in his neck. He shivered violently, couldn't help it. He was sick and chilled – dizzy and hurting. For some reason, his clothes were sodden. They clung dank and cold against his flesh.

"Cold - "

God, he sounded pretty pathetic. His voice was weedy, and oddly petulant. He swallowed hard and made another attempt, but he couldn't get his mouth around the words.

"I know, Don," Charlie pulled him closer. "You took a midnight swim in the lake."

It came back to him then – or most of it did. A dark cacophony of desperation and hurting. The images took their sweet time to clarify, and then finally a clearer picture resolved. Harrison had followed them from Wishon and lain in wait for them up by the lakeside. He'd ambushed them – beat the crap out of him, and a gun held to his brother's head.

"Charlie – " he opened his eyes and struggled to move, but Charlie's hand stilled in sudden warning.

"Hush, please, you have to lie quietly. Don't talk. Don't let them hear you're awake."

His gut clenched at the fear in his brother's voice. It was stripped bare and naked, almost palpable. Right now, he trusted Charlie implicitly. He lay back and did as he was told. When his head cleared some more, just a little, he spoke again very quietly. His mouth was swollen and clumsy. It really hurt him to talk.

"What's happening, did they touch you?"

"No – I'm okay, Don, it's you they're concerned with. Harrison, God, he beat you pretty badly. You've been unconscious for more than two hours now. They're sat over by the fire drinking beer."

Don wasn't aware he'd been holding his breath. He exhaled - _thank the lord for small mercies. _Harrison had acted like a man possessed, but he hadn't taken his rage out on Charlie. It was something – not much – but something. It gave him a small glimmer of hope.

"Chuck, I need you to promise me – I want you to try and get out of here. Get back down the trail to safety. It's me they want – you said it yourself."

"Shut up," Charlie tensed in anger. "Don't you dare try and play the big hero. There's no way in hell I'm leaving you here. If we make a break, we do it together."

"Listen - "

"No, Don, why don't you _listen_ for once? You owe me an honest explanation. If you suspected we might be in danger, then why in God's name, didn't you say?"

_And therein lay the rub._ Charlie had a good point. Don sighed, he had nothing to counter it. He'd had an instinct – no, make that more a gut feeling – that meeting Harrison boded no good. He shifted, and bit back a cry of pain. His chest hurt – it was clear some ribs were broken. Didn't need a medic or an x-ray machine to know he was in pretty rough shape. Right now, the act of standing seemed nigh on impossible, let alone the thought of making a break.

"When we left the gas station in Wishon, you were checking out the rear view mirror. I thought maybe it was just force of habit, but you knew something was wrong even then."

Charlie was talking – still lecturing him – and he guessed he kind of deserved it. He'd let Charlie down and he knew it. He felt sick with shame and dismay.

"I'm sorry."

The apology sounded hopelessly inadequate. Nonetheless, he was honour bound to offer it. He'd wanted this weekend so damned badly, that he'd pushed all the warnings aside. It had been ill-starred from the very beginning - he should have known, should have listened – but he'd been hoping for some kind of rapprochement, and determined to force his own luck. He heard Charlie gulp, like he was crying, but his vision was blurry and swaying.

"It's okay, Don," the words were more gentle. The soft fingers were soothing in his hair.

His eyes closed, and he almost drifted. It would be easy – so easy – to let go again. He felt numb and strangely disconnected. His muscles ached and shivered with cold. _Not now_ – he gripped tight hold of Charlie's hand – a lifeline of warmth and sinew. It was his fault they were up to their necks in this mess. He needed to stay awake and alert.

"Bakersfield, four years ago . . ."

He whispered the story to Charlie, and it helped to re-hash all the elements. The memories unfolded like cine-film, as he ran through events in his head. The truth of the matter dawned on him now – his heart sank as he recalled the details. The kid who'd been shot at the back of the store . . . he'd almost forgotten his name.

_Harrison. _

The kid's name was Wayne Harrison.

And now his brother wanted revenge.

"You didn't shoot him." Charlie said, quietly.

"No, but I did call the cops."

A second's silence and then; "We're so screwed."

Paradoxically, he sensed Charlie was smiling, and the small expression lifted his spirits. He understood the reaction completely; part hysteria – part raw fear. It was good in a way, and strangely comforting, that his brother had maintained a sense of humour. To be honest, it wouldn't be that surprising if Charlie blamed him for this whole debacle. He raised his head and looked around, carefully, trying to get a better idea of their surroundings. Jake and Harrison sat by the campfire, talking loudly and drinking beer.

"I managed to hide my cell phone," Charlie spoke, softly. "I tried, but I can't get a signal. Guess we're too far from the beaten track. There's no reception up here."

"No – but there is once you get past the ridge." Don's voice was firm and determined. "You have to make a break for it – move on down through the trees. Call David, and get us some help. No arguments, Chuck, I won't make it. Just common sense, I'm not trying to be a hero."

"I won't leave you."

_For God's sake, he really didn't need this_. "Look at it logically, as though it's a math problem. We have no choice – it's the only way."

"Shhh - " Charlie tensed against him, but the warning came a second too late.

"Well, lookee here, seems our Fed is awake," Harrison strode across from the campfire. "See, my little brother Jake, he was really kinda bummed, when you checked out and spoiled his fun."

"Another brother, huh?" Don looked up at him, and made a real effort. He knew he shouldn't, but he damned well couldn't help it. "You're the eldest; you should be looking out for them. First Wayne, and now Jake?"

The boot struck him hard, just as he'd known it would, and sent Charlie sprawling away from him. Don struggled up onto his elbow and saw his brother fall back into some scrub. He took a breath and hunched over. _Yet another bruise to add to his collection. _But Harrison's look of fury had been worth it, and what the hell, he was going for a full set.

"You remembered."

"Yeah, I remembered. I _remember_ how you gunned down the storekeeper. I remember how_ you_ fucked the whole thing up, and then got your brother killed."

"Shut up," Harrison stood over him. "That ain't quite the way I recall it."

"No?" Don was going for broke. "Good to see you escaped back to boot camp. Funny, you managed to get clean away, and left your little brother for dead."

"You set us up," Harrison leaned over him. "You knew the cops had it covered, but you still sent us out the back door."

"It's my job," Don answered, levelly. "I get paid to catch the bad guys, not to help them escape."

"My brother Wayne, hell, he wasn't no bad guy. He was barely seventeen years old."

"Then you should have been looking out for him. It was your job to keep him safe." He laid the words out in the open. _Was he speaking for himself or Harrison? _He knew then he'd pushed things a little too far when he looked up at the other man's face. There was rage and guilt in the burning eyes, and just a hint of genuine distress. "There's still time," he followed up on the advantage. "Still time to give this up, and get away. Do the right thing, and look out for Jake here, before things get too out of hand."

He thought he'd struck a nerve for a moment. There was a pause – just a brief flare of hope. It flickered for a second and then died out again, as Harrison straightened up and exhaled.

"Seems you said something like that once before. It didn't end too well for me that time. See, I'm done with anything you got to say, and now _I'm _the one doing the talking. Me and Jake here – we burned all our bridges. The old man's dead and I'm outta the corps. You callin' in to the gas station in Wishon – well, it was kinda like a gift from above."

"You killed Wayne," Jake stepped forward, swaying with drink. He was high on bloodlust and beer. "You killed our little brother. Let me have him, Kyle, you promised. You killed Wayne, and now it's your turn."

"Not yet." The window of opportunity slammed firmly closed, and Harrison was back in control again. The ex-marine studied him carefully, and then smiled and looked over at Charlie. "Kinda poetic, ain't it, that you should be out here with your brother? Just like what it says in the bible. An eye for a fucking eye."

_God, no_ - fear gave Don strength, and he pushed himself up, hearing intent in the other man's gloating. They would not take this out on his brother. It was his job to keep Charlie safe. Jake still held the gun - an M9 - but his hand was slack. A combination of over-confidence and alcohol. Don made a sudden, desperate lurch for his kneecaps and brought him crashing down to the ground.

"Run, Charlie!"

"Don - "

"For God's sake, just go!"

A brief flash of indecision - and he scraped all of it up to his advantage. Harrison was torn between lunging for Charlie, and reclaiming the gun from the ground. Don did his best to delay things. Every second had to work in their favour. He deliberately tangled his limbs around Jake's, and reached out to grope for the weapon. His hand missed by a couple of inches, and – _damn_ - he didn't have a prayer and he knew it – understood in his heart, it was futile, as he saw Charlie break for the tree-line.

If he could make it . . . get deeper into the undergrowth, then at least he stood a chance of escape.

"No way, Eppes!"

Harrison yanked him roughly aside, and kicked the gun away, out of his reach. Don curled his head under a new barrage of blows, and felt a starburst of pain in his bicep. _Stitches – he was guessing his stitches had popped_. He'd forgotten all about the bullet crease. Sure enough, he was aware of a warm rush of blood. Just another woe to add to his list.

He looked up sideways, as Jake scrambled off him, throwing in a few more cuffs for good measure. Don shielded his face and endured them, half sick with fear and dismay. It was Harrison he was concerned about - _and what he might do to his brother._ The ex-marine stooped and picked up the gun, then the sound of a shot rent the air.

A bullet spat off the ground, and Charlie stopped in his tracks.

He was a metre away from the tree line.

He turned slowly in a gesture of surrender, and raised his hands high above his head.

"That's good, _Charlie,_ good. I'm glad you see sense," Harrison mocked, and then switched the gun back to Don, the muzzle resting up against his forehead. "Where the hell did you think you were going? You pull another, damned stunt like that, and the next one's gonna part your brother's hair."

"Wait - " Don just about croaked out the word, he was desperate to deflect attention from Charlie. "Come on, man, don't do anything crazy. I wasn't lying to you earlier when I said I'd been in contact with my team. Anything happens to me or my brother, you can be sure they already have your name. It won't take long - they'll come after you - you can bet your life they're gonna catch you. Killing a Fed - there ain't no way out of it, man, it's the needle for both you and Jake."

"Big deal," Harrison spun on him savagely. "Know what, Eppes, it ain't no problem, and it's gonna take some time for them to find you. Me and Jake - we know these mountains like the backs of our hands. We'll be long gone in a couple of days."

There was a horrible truth about his pronouncement, and Don had already worked out the practicalities. This part of the Sierras was so vast and remote that their bodies might never be found. And _if_ they were – by the time they were – the Harrison boys would have vanished. No traces, no proof and no evidence. Even to his own ears, the bluff sounded weak.

Jake brushed himself off, and clambered back to his feet, looking towards his brother for guidance. He moved over the rocks and grabbed Charlie's arm, pulling him across to Don's side. "What do we do now, Kyle?"

Harrison spoke, abruptly. "We finish it. Eppes is right – we need to head on outta here. It's time to put an end to what we started. Get this over and done with, for Wayne."

"You all right, Don?" Charlie asked, softly.

"Yeah."

Don made an attempt to smile at him, absurdly grateful for the small gesture of kindness. Simultaneously, their fingers collided, both reaching for the other's hand. He felt sad and unbearably guilty; so much for defending his brother. All last night's promises, his well-meaning intentions . . . looked like they'd come to the end of the line. All because of that day – several years ago – he'd played hooky and escaped from the office. Unknowingly, driving off into a world of hurt, and basically, just because he was bored. He sighed, there was something – some saying he'd heard, about a butterfly's wings beating in a forest. Back then, he'd created a ripple which had cascaded and caused this effect.

"It's not your fault."

_Who was Charlie kidding?_

He'd let his little brother down big-time.

"Get up."

Harrison waved the gun at him, and Don tried to weigh up the options. They had narrowed down to practically zero – _so, this was the finish of it, then. _He could, he supposed, make a dive for the gun, and take a bullet instead of his brother. Commit what would certainly be suicide, and offer Charlie a last-ditch chance of escape. It was a scheme built on desperation and guaranteed almost definite failure, and in his heart, Don recognised it was impossible. He knew Charlie wouldn't leave him again.

The sky was lightening over the mountain tops and a cold dawn was already breaking. He thought of Robin, he thought of his father. Of too many words left unsaid. Well, it was too damned late to regret them now. He looked instead, to his brother. Charlie's arm tightened around him as he helped him up to his feet.

"Don," Charlie sounded uncertain. "All these years, everything that's happened . . ."

Don pulled him closer into a hug. "It's okay, Chuck – me too. None of it matters, bro. We're okay, _we always have been."_

Branches crashed in the nearby undergrowth, and he looked up in swift amazement. The leaves of the shrub-line parted, and a large, black bear stepped out of the trees. He stopped, and then rose up on his haunches – nose twitching in anticipation. After a few seconds, he lumbered towards them, no doubt lured by the sweet scent of beer.

"Jesus!"

Jake shoved Charlie hard against Don, as he pushed past and scrambled for safety. He lost his footing on the loose shingle and went down with a bruising fall. The bear paused and growled in warning, clearly disconcerted by the sudden, frenzied movement. He made a loud blowing noise through his nostrils and dropped down onto all four paws.

Charlie griped tight hold of Don's arm. "We need to hit reverse, slowly."

The bear was a male – big and powerful - well-muscled up in preparation for the winter, and whatever kind of hurt it cost him, Don was more than happy to oblige. They took a step back towards the tree line, as the bear loped down onto the shingle. Harrison swung the gun around wildly, torn between stopping them and helping Jake.

"Keep moving," Don murmured, softly, a line of cold sweat on his lip.

Rain clouds glowered down across the mountains, and there was a cool threat of damp in the air. Whichever way you chose to describe it – this was _so _not turning into a good day. Charlie held onto him tightly, his body taut and vibrating with tension, hands clamped around his bicep like a lifeline as they edged towards the shelter of the trees.

Don kept his eye on Harrison mainly.

_He feared the man more than the bear._

"Shoo! Go on, keep away from him. Come on, Jake, get on over to me!"

Harrison waved his arms at the bear, and took one or two steps forward. The big animal hesitated for a moment, and then began to chatter his teeth. Said teeth were sharp, and looked horribly strong, and the action was highly exaggerated. Don remembered enough from his wilderness training to know it was a sign of aggression.

The bear attacked, swiftly and impressively, and Jake screamed as the animal bore down on him. It bussed him over onto the shingle with a one-two series of cuffs. Don straightened and didn't waste anymore time, without doubt, this was their last opportunity. Ducking down, he pulled Charlie with him, and plunged headfirst into the trees.

**_TBC_**

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: -** _Again, some language._

**A/N: -** _Many _t_hanks again for reading - and all the kind messages of concern for the bear!_

_Lisa._

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Six**_

As they moved into the woods the trees got thicker and the going got manifestly harder. Any chance of a swift flight was hampered by a tangle of undergrowth and roots. There were no clear signs of pursuit yet, but Charlie didn't stop to listen. If it was a choice between the bear or the Harrison boys, right now, he'd prefer the bear.

He could hear Don wheezing beside him and knew he was finding things difficult. But as usual, in typical fashion, he hadn't uttered a single word of complaint. It was dawn now and the light was stronger. At least they could see where they were going. Charlie fought the urge to stop and look behind him. He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

They'd been moving steadily uphill and roughly in the right direction. The terrain would start sloping donwards and become a whole lot easier once they topped the crest of the ridge. _When and not if_ – Charlie told himself, over and over like an inner mantra. He felt Don stumble, almost losing his balance, and held on a little tighter around his waist.

"You okay?"

It was the first words they'd spoken since their getaway, and he flinched at how loud they sounded. Other than the hollow thud of their feet, the woods were hushed and uncannily silent.

"Need to stop."

Don's rasping answer frightened him. It sounded anguished and out of character. He slowed, and this time, _did_ glance behind him, before leaning them both up against a tree. It was the first time he'd looked – _really looked closely_ – at Don, and he felt a tug of fear and predictability. He'd been there; he'd witnessed most of the beatings. There was something very wrong with his brother.

"God, Don, why didn't you say something?"

Don shook his head and tried to catch his breath. "Not here – higher up the incline. The rocks, behind that outcrop . . . it's not safe yet, we need to take cover."

The outcrop would make a good vantage point with a clear view down through the swale, and however concerned he was about Don, Charlie knew he couldn't argue with the logic. The slope veered up steeply in front of them, wet and slippery with fallen pine needles. It was a perilous and almost vertical climb for at least another three hundred yards. If he didn't know any better, he might argue that Don wouldn't make it. He was still gasping and his colour was dreadful, eyes unfocused as he tried to peer ahead through the trees.

There was no point attempting to disagree. They had no choice and the situation was desperate. As helpful as his appearance had been to them, they couldn't rely solely on the bear. Black bears were rarely that aggressive and this particular animal must have felt threatened, but if the Harrison brothers knew any wilderness lore, there was a good prospect they'd deflected the attack.

_Either that or they'd killed the bear._

He gritted his teeth and hitched hold of Don's belt. Their progress was exhausting and arduous. He found himself hoping that Jake had been hurt. There was a slim chance it might grant them some time.

He gave a heartfelt sigh of relief, as eventually, they reached the small outcrop. They'd both staggered on a couple of occasions, their feet slipping and sliding on damp leaves. Charlie eased Don down carefully. He was more than glad to settle in behind the boulders. He leaned back against the intensely cold stone and closed his eyes for a second's reprieve. This time yesterday morning, he'd been worried for a whole different set of reasons. Right now was far more terrifying, less abstract, and yet he felt a damned sight more alive.

He put a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't realised his head was aching so badly. There was a familiar sensation of numbness, as his left eyelid trembled and fluttered. _Not now._ He did his best to control it, but the muscles acted of their own volition. His face slackened with pins and needles, as he tried to conceal the twitch. It was just a little timely reminder. He hadn't thought about the tumour for hours now. Not since the advent of the Harrisons and the more urgent threat to his life. Licking his lips, he discovered he was thirsty, feeling dried out and dehydrated. Somewhat belatedly, and not for the first time, he was bitterly regretting all those beers.

He glanced sideways to see if Don had spotted anything was wrong, and realised he needn't have worried. His brother sat slumped and immobile, his hands hanging down loose between his legs. He didn't appear capable of opening his eyes, let alone taking notice of Charlie. A sharp pang of anxiety stabbed at him, as grim reality dawned along with the morning. Things looked pretty severe in the cold light of day and the facts were as grey as the sky. Right now, it was up to him to take care of things, as Don was so clearly out of it. He turned around and stared back down the incline, straining to see through the dense ranks of trees.

"Doesn't look like we're being followed."

Don grunted, but didn't really answer.

"Hey, bro, better not go to sleep on me, it's not exactly the best time to take a nap."

"Sorry," Don rallied, and made a brave attempt to straighten up, but the small effort obviously cost him. "Just give me a minute, Charlie, I'm having trouble catching my breath."

Charlie shifted a little closer and blenched. The improving daylight hadn't done Don any favours. His face was swollen and bloodied. In-fact, he looked like a giant walking bruise. He didn't sound so good, either, more like an old man, hoarse and congested. He braced his back against the rock and leaned forward, clutching an arm around his chest.

Things were bad, in-fact they were terrible. Charlie's gut tightened with anguish. It seemed as though the fates were emphasising they might not make it out of this mess. Or at least, not together, a small devil whispered in his ear. If he left Don alone and made a run for it, then he knew he could reach the ridge in no time. He would be able to use the cell phone and send an SOS to Don's team. It made sense. No, scrap that, it _more_ than made sense. It was, in effect, supremely logical. And once he knew help was definitely coming, he could double back and locate Don again.

"You should leave me and make a break for it. Keep away from the trail and stay hidden. I'll hole up until it's safe again. There's a good chance they won't find me here."

He gave a start of guilt as Don's words echoed his thoughts. As though his brother had suddenly turned mind reader. He leaned across and very carefully, placed his hand on Don's forehead.

"You're freezing – it's hardly surprising. It's damned cold and your clothes are still wet. You're hurt, Don, maybe quite badly. There's no way I can leave you alone."

"Yes, you can and you will." Don squinted up at him. One of his eyes had completely closed over. "Don't tell me you haven't thought it through. It's the only choice which makes sense."

"Don, no - "

"For God's sake, Charlie, don't argue with me. I'll lie low – be safe here, I promise. Every second we're alone makes us vulnerable. What we need most of all, is some help."

He was right, and Charlie knew it. They needed back-up, some form of reassurance. Kyle Harrison wouldn't risk hanging around if the mountains were crawling with Feds. _But Don_ . . . he knew his brother was serriously hurt, in-spite of the show of bravado. He was shaking now, shivering with ague, teeth chattering just like the bear. He needed help and Charlie was powerless. There was nothing he could do for him here.

"Okay," he took a breath and then nodded, miserably; it left a nasty taste in his mouth.

"Thanks," Don sounded weak and relieved, and then he looked up and spoke somewhat awkwardly. "Hey, those promises, all those pledges I made to stand by you last night – so far, I've made a pretty crappy job of keeping them. Whatever happens, you have to get through this. You have to go and meet that appointment."

Charlie swallowed, and then smiled back and shook his head. "Will you shut up and stop playing the hero? I make it twice now, I've avoided a bullet. If it wasn't for you and our friend Smokey back there, it's a pretty safe bet I'd be dead. "

Don laughed, and then groaned, catching hold of his ribs. His colour faded alarmingly. Charlie scooted a little closer and placed a tentative hand on his side.

"Are they broken?"

Don nodded. "They're broken. I can feel them moving around in there. Didn't take much after the shooting, I guess. Should've known I was playing with fire."

Charlie went cold. _After the shooting._ He thought Don had been grazed by a bullet. He was suddenly, blindingly angry. It looked like Don had been shot in the vest. When he thought about it now, it made exceptional sense, and explained away some glaring anomalies. Like for instance, how unusually tired and grey Don had been, and how slowly he'd lagged behind on the trail.

"I don't understand. You were shot in the arm. You said nothing about any other injuries. Are you telling me you drove all the way up here after taking a round in the vest?"

A beat, and he could almost hear Don cursing.

"Hey, it really isn't that big a deal. I had it checked out and they okayed me. A few bruises and a possible cracked rib, all thanks to the holy god of Kevlar. It should have been good – I _would_ have been good – if things hadn't gone so damned haywire. I didn't plan on running into a psychopath or becoming his personal punch-bag."

"And David knew this, of course?"

"Yeah, David knew, but what the hell, Charlie, none of this is his fault. He stayed with me at the hospital. I didn't tell him we were coming up here."

"I don't get it, you said nothing, not a single word. You should have let me know, should have cancelled. When I think of the lecture you gave me last night – God, what a hypocrite."

"Maybe I should've," Don was clearly exhausted, "but we've both been so busy lately. Look, I just felt this weekend was important, okay? And besides, I knew something was up with you. Come on, Chuck, we don't have any time for this, and hopefully, we can save it for later. You need to help me find a spot a little higher, and then you can get out of here."

"Sure, okay, later," Charlie compressed his lips. _Bet your sweet life there was going to be a later._ Of all the stupid, crazy stunts . . . Don was _not _going to get away with this. He took a breath and took control of his anger, the raw emotion was a shocking waste of energy; and he could channel it far more productively until they were safely out of the mountains. After that, he scowled, well, all bets were off. He was, he felt, a little entitled. He would have something to say to his brother when they were home again and both out of danger.

"That uprooted tree," Don gave a grunt of pain and pointed a few dozen yards to the north of them. "With any luck, there might be a root cave. A place where I can lie low."

By the time they'd covered the short distance, Charlie had forgotten all about his resentment. Don was in trouble, leaning heavily against him, and almost out on his feet.

It was a large fallen tree, once deciduous, dead now, but still oddly dignified. The bulk of it gripped and wrenched out of the earth by a violent storm back during the summer. The root ball had created a small, hollowed out cave, which would provide some relatively dry shelter. Charlie scraped aside a pile of dead leaves and considered the ways of getting Don in under. It looked dark and comparatively cosy inside, fragrant and rich with the loamed scent of earth. There was only one way to go about it. The opening was narrow and uneven. It meant lowering himself through the hole in the ground and entering the root-cave first. He hooked his hands under Don's armpits, terrified of putting pressure on his ribcage, before wriggling into the aperture and dragging him down as gently as he could.

_Shot centre mass._

_Two rounds in the vest._

Charlie swallowed back a stirring of panic and tried to push it to the depths of his mind. Didn't want to imagine what the subsequent beatings might have done to his brother's already fragile chest. Broken ribs and bruised or punctured lungs . . . pneumothorax and pulmonary oedema. The words spun like a nightmarish lexicon of medical terms in his head.

Oh, yeah, he'd done all the research.

There was nothing he didn't know about Kevlar; about its properties, its structure or components. He'd become quite the concerned expert, since the first time he saw Don wear a vest.

He knew they were good, but not foolproof, and certainly by no means impervious. The severity of injury was basically a lottery, all depending on the type and calibre of weaponry. And even if the bullets didn't penetrate, he baulked a little at the thought of it. The absorption of energy and sheer force of impact could still cause blunt force trauma to the chest.

There was enough room for them both to sit upright, and listening to Don's breathing, he was grateful. They sat there, not speaking for a minute or two, leaning back against a bank of roots and earth. It was still cold but surprisingly dry in here; he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. There was a layer of dried leaves beneath them and just enough light to see in the gloom.

"Could be worse." _Who was he kidding, it was awful._ He already felt claustrophobic. A part of him was glad and riddled with guilt he wasn't the one having to stay. "Don?"

His brother was inert and unresponsive; head slack and flopped forward on his chest. Charlie touched his face gently. He really was very afraid now. Don looked dreadful – as though he wouldn't make it. He was terrified to leave him alone.

"Get going."

The voice was so laboured.

It sounded weak and nothing like Don.

It was now or never. Charlie bit his lip and stuck his head back through the aperture. Although his instincts were screaming to stay here, but there was no more time left to squander. Don's condition was worsening, and he knew the clock was racing against them. He needed to go make that phone call . . . had to go get Don some help.

He narrowed his eyes, and stared down through the trees, on alert for any sign of movement. The woods were still, and deceptively peaceful, and there were no indications of obvious pursuit. With any luck, he tried to stay logical, they were being overly cautious, because it was, he reasoned, pretty damned likely, that Jake had been seriously mauled. Maybe Harrison had done the decent thing and faced up to his responsibilities; taken care of his younger brother, and high-tailed it out of here.

_If only . . ._ it was wishful thinking. They were still in terrible danger. He knew Kyle wouldn't waste a second once he managed to circumvent the bear. He hesitated, wracked with indecision, his mind going over all the equations. There really was no other alternative. It was the only valid option they had left.

"Stay put, Don. Please, no heroics. I need to know you'll be safe."

Don eased his good eye open a crack. He looked at Charlie incredulously. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Yeah, well, I know how stubborn you are." Charlie forced a weak smile back.

"Take care," Don sounded worried. "Keep alert and avoid the trail, and for God's sake, steer well clear of the car park. It's the logical place we might head for, and they might try and ambush us there. Make the call as soon as you can. Get some help, and ruin David's weekend. Once they see the place is buzzing, then they'll leave us alone, hey, that's the most important thing."

"Stop worrying, it's done," he put a hand on Don's shoulder. "Get some rest, and I'll be back before you know it."

Don struggled up, and grasped hold of his arm. "Wait a second, no way, do you hear me? You head down and meet up with Sinclair, watch out for them and stay hidden. The whole point is to get you to safety. You're not to come back here for me."

"But Don - "

"For fucks sake, we don't have time for this. Just do it, Charlie, swear to me."

Charlie looked at him, stricken with anger and guilt. He hated being placed in this position. Don had no moral high ground here - no real entitlement to play at being a martyr. "Pots and kettles," he said the words softly, "you have no right to ask this of me. Not after everything that's happened, both in the past and the last couple of days. How can you order me to leave you alone, when there's no way on earth you'd abandon me?"

"It's not what you think," Don let his arm drop. He sounded beaten and unutterably weary. "If you fall into Harrison's hands again, then he'll use you to flush me out of here. Once he has me, he'll kill the both of us, and then he's gonna get clean away. It's not about how competent I think you are, or some misguided attempt to protect you. If anything, I'm being selfish. I need to know you made it out okay. You have to do this, _promise me._ No matter what you might hear."

Charlie paled, and then nodded his head. It was aching harder than ever. He took one last look at his brother. He could hardly trust himself to speak. "I'd better go then, better get a move on. Guess I'll be seeing you later." He got to his feet and brushed dead leaves off his clothes, taking one last look down the incline. "Don, I don't know how to say this . . . only _please_ take good care of yourself."

* * *

He was gone.

At long last.

Don heaved a sigh of relief as he listened to the fading footsteps. The forest silence surged rapidly backwards and then he was completely alone. He shivered and took stock of his surroundings. He was safe enough here for the time being. Just like a wounded animal, in-fact, gone to earth in his semi-underground den. Nature had provided her own camouflage with a lattice-work of root-spurs and dead branches, loose earth and dead leaves washed downhill by the rain had choked up the spaces in-between.

The problem was that Harrison had been in the corps. He was trained in both survival and surveillance. Don knew the man would find him eventually, if he tracked them in earnest through the woods. And when he did, Don was under no illusion, the ending would be painful and unpleasant. He would die here, slowly and horribly, and nobody would ever find his remains.

A skein of panic rippled over him, and he fought hard to remain optimistic. Charlie was all alone out there. He hoped to God he'd done the right thing. Then again, there wasn't much alternative. He was in pain and dangerously light-headed. The severity of his injuries would have slowed them both down – could have stopped them from reaching the ridge. No, Don knew, with a heavy heart, in truth, there was no valid choice at all.

This time, it was all up to Charlie. He was counting on his brother to save him, relying on Charlie's physical dexterity as opposed to his ability with math. It was going to be okay. _It would be okay._ So why the hell was he still hyperventilating?

For all his academic propensities, Charlie had spent a lot of time outdoors. As kids, they'd been on camping vacations, and both his wilderness and survival skills were good. He and Larry used to hike up here for days at a time at the end of the summer semester. And then again, there were the regular fishing trips they'd taken years ago with mom and dad.

_Don't go there._

He didn't want to think about mom.

To dredge up all those painful old memories.

Not now, just when it looked with a cruel twist of fate, as though he'd have to re-live it all again. God, he was being pretty egotistical, to paste his own selfish slant on Charlie's suffering. The truth was, he didn't know if he was up to it. If he could deal with or shoulder this new pain. It would be easier, on so many levels, if he was the one with the tumour.

Don recognised then, how fucked up it all was. How much he hated feeling useless and dependent. The position felt strange and kind of alien as events had spiralled out of his control. Yeah, he knew he was a control-freak, but he realised he had faith in his brother_. _The feeling gave him something to hold on to, a small crumb of comfort and warmth.

_Both in Charlie and a large . . . no . . . better make that a massive dose of luck. _

And on the subject of luck, he offered up a quick prayer, as he gave fervent thanks for good Old Smokey. His appearance had been like some kind of miracle, unexpected and wholly unforeseen. All those corny jokes and stories about beer-drinking bears, he never thought he'd be happy to attest to them. There was no doubt the animal had saved both their lives when he'd booze-cruised out of the trees. Don hoped against hope he was still alive, and that Harrison hadn't shot him, but it _was_ possible to stop a bear with a handgun, if you kept your aim and your nerve.

He didn't think Harrison suffered from bad nerves.

Nope - not looking good for either him or Smokey.

In a perfect world, the ex-marine was bear-chow, served up bloody and resembling steak tartare. A tasty entree at the teddy-bear's picnic, while the big old bruin sank a few beers.

Talking of beers, he could do with a mouthful himself, and some water might be even better. He groaned then, he couldn't help it, frustrated by the sum of his injuries. Thirsty meant shock . . . not that big a surprise. Mouth was dry and his teeth were still chattering. His head hurt like the very devil, but worse, far worse, were his ribs. The midnight swim in the lake hadn't helped things much, and he was chilled right down to his marrow. His clothes still clung to him damply, the wet fabric heavy and cold.

Goddamn, Charlie was right, he was a hypocrite, and what's more, he was a fucking idiot. He'd landed them both in one hell of a mess when he should have stayed at home in bed. He'd give anything to be tucked up warm and comfortably now, and with, by association, Robin. She was literally going to kill him, when she learned about this mess, and to be fair, she had every right. Whatever happened, whatever the outcome, _and that included best-case scenario,_ he guessed a whole lot of people he cared about, might have good reason to be pissed off with him.

_For every action there is a consequence._

God, how he hated clichés, and even worse, clichéd adages. The trouble was however much he hated them, the damned things were usually right. He closed his eyes and thought of Charlie . . . pictured his face and heard his voice back at the lakeside. When he considered what his brother had been going through, then quite suddenly, he didn't regret a thing.

All these past weeks spent thinking he had cancer, suffering and trying to deal with it alone. He must have been bowled over and petrified, no, better make that crucified with fear. Walking around with the weight of the world on his back, and doing his best to hide it. Trying hard to carry on as normal, and living in denial, just like mom. _Oh Charlie_, and suddenly, Don ached for him. For a few seconds, he forgot his own injuries. He'd made promises and given many assurances . . . now he would keep them or damned-well die in the attempt.

Time blurred then, and he dozed on and off, jerked awake by another round of shivering. His clothes had fused to his body like a second, miserable skin. He squinted down at his watch – barely eight am – funny, but he'd thought it was later. He felt spacey and dull and out of it, strangely listless and seriously cold.

Should have kept a better eye on the time.

Should have kept an even better eye on Charlie.

If he'd kept a better watch on his brother, then he might have noticed something was wrong.

It wasn't really his fault. Wasn't anyone's fault, and the rational part of him knew it. Charlie was a man, and a highly successful one, he was fully in charge of his own life. If it was him, and the shoe was on the other foot, then would he have behaved any differently? He would have done just the same as Charlie, and tried to deal with the bad news alone.

In a way, it was profoundly ironic. Both the same and yet both so dissimilar. So damned good at suppressing their feelings; at burying them down deep in the vault.

Talking of vaults . . . he shifted awkwardly. There wasn't too much room to manoeuvre. He canted his hips somewhat higher and turned slightly onto his side. It helped, not a lot, but a little. The pressure inside his chest was increasing. There was a heaviness, a weight pushing down on him, which made it much harder to breathe.

Not good.

No point in kidding himself.

There was something pretty radically wrong with him, he was in trouble and getting weaker.

Right now, he was facing two enemies, and of the two, the deadlier one was time.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**_Disclaimer:_ -** _Once again, some language._

_**A/N: -** Thank you for reading this story and for all reviews and messages of support. _

_Lisa._

**_____________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Seven**_

Breaking trail on these slopes was hard going. The woods were thick and tangled with undergrowth. In some places, the forest shelf sheered away vertically and forced him on a more circuitous route. He'd learned to be careful when placing his feet because the carpet of damp leaves was treacherous. The pine needles were slick like an ice-rink and he'd fallen on his backside several times.

Charlie sighed, and paused to take a quick break. By now, he was hurting all over. His muscles were sore and felt stretched to the limit, protesting both with bruises and exertion. He wiped a hand over his forehead, his skin clammy with rain and sweat. He was miserable, running on empty and for some reason, his joints really ached.

It was lighter but grey with drizzle. The fine rain seeping into his clothing. He was strung out on wretchedness, and fighting exhaustion as he pushed his way up to the ridge. He tried hard not to worry, even harder not to think, but his treacherous brain wasn't listening. It spun round like a disc on a continuous loop, stuck on endless repeat in his head.

This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he'd planned this little trip into the mountains, and selfishly, he couldn't help resenting the fact it had all gone so horribly awry. In retrospect, he knew he'd been obsessive and working within narrowed parameters. All he'd thought about, and with honesty, fixated upon, was telling Don and getting him on-side. This disastrous encounter with the Harrisons, it should be totally the worse thing he needed, but on the other hand, and very bizarrely, Charlie found he could barely remember when he'd last felt so urgently alive.

All these weeks after realising something was wrong, he'd existed in a kind of limbo, an insidious, creeping lassitude which had usurped and subjugated his days. Somehow, he'd just about managed to tough it out, to perform and go through the motions, refusing to acknowledge the lingering terror which skirted around the fringes of his consciousness.

Cancer.

He knew occasionally some types were familial, and that the tendency could run in families. And now he was being forced to face up to it – to confront this threat to his life. But he hadn't, of course, and that was the problem. He'd pushed it away, just like the last time. Refused to let it get past the barriers he'd erected in order to function.

What Don had said, his mini-lecture last night by the lake, Charlie accepted now he should have been more open. He should have confided in, and trusted his loved ones enough, to be honest and tell them the truth. In the end, by simple virtue of loving him, they had a right to be there to support him, and his misguided attempts at protection had done them a kind of disfavour. He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, really glad for the first time it was shorter. This mode of thinking looped him around in a circle and, inevitably, led right back to Don.

Don.

He thought about his brother stuck back there in that hole. _Of all the hard-headed, obdurate, stubborn_ . . . any attempt at coherent words failed him. The same brother who'd driven all the way out here, despite being hurt and in pain. He might have laughed then if things weren't so desperate. The twisted irony didn't succeed in escaping him. For such a straight-arrow, down-to-earth type of guy, Don was really great at lying by omission. He ran clean away with the trophy when it came down to hiding his distress.

_He hadn't been so great at it earlier. _

Charlie sobered up, as he remembered.

It was hard to think of the last time he'd seen Don in quite so much pain.

He pushed off the tree and moved on again, filled with foreboding and bitter anxiety. What in God's name was he thinking, he had no luxury, no time in which to rest. He hurried now, more quickly, less carefully. The way was steep and the ground was uneven. Once, his heart nearly leapt from his body in fright, but it was only a young, white-tailed deer.

_Keep cool – stay calm - mustn't lose it_.

But the adrenalin rush didn't do him any favours. A sudden pounding of blood pulsed through his arteries and his head hurt worse than before. Startled, a bird flew out of the scrub, clacking and screeching up from the undergrowth. He lost his balance and flailed backwards, both feet slipping and sliding for purchase, but the wet leaves proved to be his undoing and he fell awkwardly, badly jarring his right knee.

Not broken, but he was sure he'd wrenched the ligaments. The whole structure felt fragile and twisted. The damp earth soaked up through the fabric of his jeans as he knelt there, taking deep draughts of air through his nose. He was shaking, both with pain and in panic. He was too vulnerable, too out in the open. The bird had advertised his presence like a siren to any listening or interested ears.

He bit his lip and got to his feet again, holding his breath as he stood quietly, listening. The only sounds he could hear were his pulse-rate and the soft rhythm of rain on the leaves. There was no echo of voices and no sudden shouts. No more crashing or loud crackling through undergrowth, but the Harrison boys were locals, had grown up in these parts. It didn't mean they weren't out there, somewhere.

The ground still rose up ahead of him and Charlie had to keep going - keep moving. He forced tired muscle groups into action again, and began to climb the last few yards up to the ridge. Progress was dicey and arduous, much more difficult following the last fall. His injured leg felt weak and unstable so he took his time and moved slowly, pacing his steps more methodically until at long last, he broke through the tree-line.

On a clear day, he might see the car from up here, but the rain clouds lay in shrouds across the mountains. Swathes of grey mist choked the valleys and effectively cut off his view. Sudden fear made him fumble as he reached for the cell phone. What if the weather had affected the signal? He didn't know if he could make it any further right now, and yet Don was still counting on him.

His clumsy fingers trembled on the keypad, and then the display lit, and he supposed that was something. He eased down with his back against a tree trunk, and then inhaled sharply and waited. It took an age for the menu to appear on the screen, let alone the range of signal bars. They flickered once or twice, as though taunting him, and then settled into a definite pattern. He realised then, he'd been holding his breath, and exhaled in shattered relief.

Sinclair answered at last, after six long rings. He sounded sleepy and a little disgruntled. It was Saturday, probably having a lie-in, but right now, Charlie couldn't care less. He'd called him first out of sheer survival instinct, knowing the agent would know what to do.

He spoke rapidly. "David – it's Charlie. Don and I are in big trouble. We need a team out here as quickly as possible. You have to alert Search and Rescue and place a GPS track on this phone."

"Charlie? What the hell . . ."

"Listen, David, we're up in the Sierras at Black Rock Lake – we were supposed to be fishing, _long story._ On the way up here, we stopped at a gas statiion, and Don got recognised by a guy called Kyle Harrison. He was involved in a robbery at Bakersfield, it happened roughly four years ago."

Sinclair was wide awake now. "Go on, Charlie, yeah, I think I remember. Don called the local cops from the store and one of the perps was shot dead. Wait a minute, Liz said something to me yesterday – Don asked her to run a name and plate check. I think she left a message on his cell-phone, but I'd been wrapping up my report on the warehouse raid, and was just about to call it a day."

_Don had asked Liz to run a name and plate check?_

Well, this was the first time he'd heard of it.

Charlie rallied and told him the rest, and gradually, his hands stopped shaking. He felt a little better and more in control as the other man spoke to him steadily. When it came down to being reassuring, Sinclair was firm and very supportive. He cut to the chase pretty quickly, and his questions were pertinent and calm.

_Like Don._

The sudden comparison hurt him.

It was off-putting and distractingly unbidden.

Resolutely, he pushed any errant thoughts aside and tried to focus on the matter at hand. Three minutes later and the phone call was over. He felt a lightening of strain within his chest. The conversation had been brief out of necessity, and in spite of things, Charlie couldn't help a rueful smile. David had reiterated most of the advice he'd already been given by Don.

_Stay off the trail and keep away from your vehicle. Don't double back through the forest. Leave your cell on but keep it in silent mode. Try and find some place sheltered and warm. _

He grimaced and rubbed at his temples. By now, his head really was killing him. He winced a little at the throw away notion - _never a truer word spoken in jest._ It was tempting to stay where he was for a while; he was tired and aching all over. Frighteningly easy to doze off right here, and forget about his troubles for a moment.

_Far too hazardous, too exposed, out in the open_.

He sat up straighter and looked down into the valley, hoping to see a break in the weather, but if anything, the temperature had nose-dived and the poor visibility had worsened. The layer of clouds had settled more densely and the rain was now falling in earnest. Charlie took in a deep draught of air and exhaled, as the cool drops fell on his face.

He knew he should really set off again before the cold started to affect him. It was too uncovered here, too open to the elements, and he'd already begun to feel chilled. The sudden wash of fatigue could be a symptom of that – another reason why he had to get going. If he stayed here for very much longer there was a good chance he'd become hypothermic.

It was an awful lot harder getting back up to his feet, and he leaned heavily on the tree for a moment. His damaged knee felt clumsy and unstable. It might help if he could find a decent stick. By now, he was dangerously thirsty. _Wouldn't do to become dehydrated._ He stuck out his tongue for a second or two and then ran it across his wet lips. There were the remnants of a fallen tree trunk nearby, the old wood decaying and moss-covered. He drank from the small puddle of rainwater which had collected halfway down the trunk.

Not great, but better than nothing.

It was brackish and tasted of wood tannins.

Now, all he needed was a hearty breakfast, his stomach growled at him in protest. He only just realised, with a faint start of surprise, how ravenously hungry he was._ God, he could really use something to eat. _There was nothing up here on the ridgeline. No fallen acorns and no handy berries. It was more open, the windswept cover was sparser, and the tall, ragged trees were mostly pines.

No – he would have to wait a while longer for food - it wasn't high on his list of priorities. He had nothing, not even a packet of gum, to take the rough edge off his appetite. He hugged his jacket a little tighter around him, as the rain began to soak through his clothing. It was time to do as they'd told him before he became too uncomfortably wet.

He scanned around in search of some cover; looking for a tangle or a thicket of undergrowth. He needed somewhere less visible and more sheltered, but it was easier said then done. There was a large outcropping of basalt a little way down the hillside. It was a quarter of a mile or so in front of him, partially surrounded by a dense wall of scrub. Charlie stared, undecided, for a moment or two, as he tried to weigh all the options. On the whole, they were pretty meagre; he wasn't faced with a whole lot of choice.

On the plus side, he would probably find shelter there – unless a sleepy bear had already beaten him to it. Conversely, to any knowledgeable tracker, it was an obvious place to seek refuge, and if the Harrison boys were still behind him, then it was one of the first places they might look.

In actual fact, there was no other alternative, and it was a risk he was forced into considering. He faced real and more immediate danger from the rain and insidious cold. A couple of dozen yards down the rise and he was relieved to find a fallen pine bough, quickly stripping away the excess branches, until he was left with a fairly stout walking stick.

He leaned on it and tested his weight to make sure it was good and sturdy. By now, his leg was really hurting, and he needed to reduce the pressure on his knee. Not perfect but it was better than nothing, and he was glad of the extra balance. He was forced to slow to a veritable snail's pace as he limped downhill from the ridge.

It was tempting – too tempting – to play calculate the time, but the answers were manifestly depressing. He knew David wouldn't waste a single second, but Los Angeles was still too far away. On the plus side, there was a local _S and R_ team, and they would have quicker access to the mountains. He glanced up at the skies with a stab of unease, and hoped the bad weather wouldn't delay them.

At least Don had a modicum of shelter.

He made a face – _who was he kidding?_

He'd left him, hurt and in danger, all alone and at possible risk.

His mind wandered, and the stick slipped from under him, tipping him back onto his bottom. A flush of exasperation flooded over him – he'd been unfocused and distracted again.

"Damn it – God damn it!"

Charlie cursed out loud, jamming the stick into the ground beside him. He levered his body on the flexible pine and pulled himself back to his feet. Knuckles clenching on the freshly stripped wood, he straightened and steadied his balance. To his relief, nothing else had been damaged, except for maybe his pride.

He swallowed hard and found he was shaking, but this time, neither with cold nor fear. He was livid – both with himself and Don – and with the fates who had conspired against them. It seemed like everything that could possibly go wrong, had gone wrong . . . _and coming up here had been his idea. _

If only he'd been more open. If he'd been honest and confided in his loved ones. _Should have let them in – ought to have told them the truth, and_ _trusted them right from the start. _But then again, he wasn't the only one. His brow furrowed with righteous resentment. His brother was just as damnably stubborn, and should shoulder his fair share of the blame.

_Don had asked Liz to run a name and plate check_.

No wonder he'd been so uneasy.

He must have sensed there was something off-kilter or had a gut-feeling they might be in danger, but in usual, typical Don fashion, had decided he was not going to share. Charlie took it out on the poor old stick again and it felt good to vent some of his anger. Dark clouds swirled in dense squadrons around the mountain tops, and the cold rain drove down even harder, but he was still too incensed with the turn of events to pay attention or care very much.

He wondered then, what Don was trying to prove. What had fashioned him and made him so guarded. The answer wasn't particularly obvious when both mom and dad had showered him with love. He faltered then, and felt desperately guilty; with love, certainly – but perhaps not with time. As for him, he'd been in such awe of his brother that he'd always danced around him on eggshells. He'd always seemed so tough and self-sufficient, constantly distant and a little out of reach.

_How many times did he have to knock at the door before his brother eventually answered?_

He was tired now – or at least his body was – physically tired and his head ached. He strained his eyes and looked down into the valley. The basalt outcrop seemed a hundred miles away. He heard it then, and froze in sheer terror. The noise was deadly and sadly too familiar. _And again,_ there could be no mistaking the sound, a sharp crack echoing up through the trees.

_Crack._

The stark resonance of gunshots.

_Charlie turned and headed back towards the lake._

* * *

He shifted, and then awoke with a jerk, confused and unaware of what was happening. He blinked once or twice in bewilderment and felt the dampness of earth on his face. There was a lake and something about Charlie . . . all jumbled up with Smokey the bear.

It took a while before he remembered, and then he started wishing maybe he hadn't. All in all, coming up to the mountains? Hell, not exactly his brightest idea. That was the trouble with emotions. They had a tendency first to ambush and then slay you. Once they burrowed in and got a tight hold on you, they pushed all rational thought flat out of your head.

God, he'd known from the very beginning, right from the first, when Charlie had called him. The feeling something was up with his brother had simply refused to go away. Under any normal set of circumstances, he wouldn't have been so damned hasty. Or, make that careless and better add stupid – he would have used his head and postponed the trip. He ought to have listened to David, fronted up, and told the truth about his injuries. If only he'd been a little more trusting, but he hadn't and now it was too late.

Don gave a low groan and not just with pain.

And now he was relying on Charlie.

Some kind of big brother he was, lying here, dependent and useless.

According to his wristwatch, another hour had passed, which meant Charlie should have made it to the ridge. He shivered and uttered a short sharp prayer, with any luck, there was help on the way. _Sinclair_ – David Sinclair would know what to do, and more importantly, how to look out for Charlie's safety. Don hoped, that just for once, Charlie might acquiesce and actually listen to advice.

Problem was, he couldn't bank on it.

He knew his brother was worried about him, and was terrified Charlie would act on it. What if he should have second thoughts, turn around and re-trace his steps?

It would be the culmination of all his worse nightmares if Charlie walked into a trap.

There was pain in his head and pain in his chest, and he was having a little trouble concentrating, his mind roving back over the last twenty-four hours and all the disastrous decisions he'd made. He was shivering and wet, but his body felt parched, and he guessed he was becoming dehydrated. Kind of ironic when he was still so damned wet, but he'd sell his very soul for a drink.

Realistically, he knew he'd made the right choice, there was no way he could have walked any further, but there was something horrid and very demoralising, about being stuck here, in this hole. Talking of which, he noticed with a jolt of unease, he was lying in an icy cold puddle. The entrance to his burrow had been softened by a continuous trickle of rainwater, and the fine drizzle which had plagued them all morning had turned into a more copious deluge. It took a while to wriggle his body down flat, during which process, he almost passed out again, but it brought him into contact with the rainwater puddle and allowed him to take a long drink. The water was gritty and garnished with mud, and a side-order of dead leaves and tannins. He drank slowly, taking in as much as he could, before the taste made him feel sick. After that, he was forced to take another long rest, fighting off nausea and sporadic waves of shivering, and then he realised the damp was increasing, as more water seeped into the den.

Might be an idea to check it out – the aperture was already much bigger. It was a good thing he felt okay in small spaces, and wasn't phobic about being buried alive.

He eased forward away from the backrest of roots, then put a hand out and tested the opening. The reddish earth was sodden and crumbling, and in the words of the incomparable Han Solo - _he had a bad feeing about this. _As he watched, a medium-sized, chunk broke away, and came to rest in his lap. So okay, he was not claustrophobic, but he couldn't help a swift stab of anxiety. He had a sudden and rather alarming thought; this was the first heavy rainstorm of autumn, and as the summer had been long and exceptionally dry, on the whole, it did not auger well.

Time to get out – it was time to get out – he knew, with a grim surge of panic. Ignoring the fiery burn in his chest, as he levered over what remained of the lip. The soil fragmented under his hands as water poured into the root cave. It cascaded around him in rivulets, ferrous-coloured and uncannily like blood. He scrabbled out, just in time, as the whole structure collapsed in a tumble of soft earth and branches, and slumped there, face contorted with effort, as he fought the slicing pain in his chest.

Couldn't breathe – _too hard to breathe_ – he struggled and pushed his fists against his sternum. It seemed to help a little for some reason and at long last he rasped in some air. He didn't know how long he lay prone in the mud; long enough to feel wretched and frozen, but the rainwater beat on his eyelids and rapidly soaked through his hair.

Much more of this and he was a goner.

He hurt and the cold made him sluggish.

If he stayed here for very much longer, chances were, he'd never get up again.

A twig snapped and then he knew the game was over - leaf scuff and the soft crunch of footsteps. He pushed down on the ground and rolled onto his back, looking up into the barrel of a gun.

"Ain't this nice," Kyle Harrison leered down at him, pressing the muzzle flush against his temple. "Quite an unexpected pleasure, really. Bet you never thought you'd see me again?"

"Bad pennies," his voice sounded awful, "turn up when you least want them to."

Harrison studied him carefully, eyes creased with a kind of native intelligence. He smiled and then hunkered beside him, running the gun down his face to his chin. "You know, I get it, I really _do _get it, what you said back there, by the water. About having to look out for your brother, it being your job to keep him from harm."

"Pity you didn't get it before," Don grunted, referring to Bakersfield. "If you'd looked out for Wayne a little better that day, then maybe he'd still be alive."

He sensed the anger; saw the flash of reaction, before Harrison spoke to him again.

"What about you, Mister smart-ass, FBI? Know what, I don't see _your _brother. Now, don't you tell me he's all by himself, all alone, in those big woods out there?"

Don looked up with a shade of defiance. "Go fuck yourself, think I'd say anything to you?"

Harrison laughed. "Know what, gotta say this for you, Eppes, I really don't think you would."

"Tell him, Kyle." Jake spoke, and he didn't sound much better than Don, voice grating like a pair of old bellows. He was gasping like a chronic asthmatic, weak and struggling for air. "You tell him what we done to his punk brother."

"Take it easy," Harrison turned and half-rose to his feet, forehead creased in a web of concern. "You need to take some rest now we found him, or you might start up that bleeding again."

_Bleeding_ – he scarcely registered the word, maybe Jake had been mauled by the bear. It might be leverage, it could even be useful, but right now, it was the last thing on Don's mind. Disregarding the gun, he grasped Harrison's arm, and thrust himself up in the man's face. "Charlie – what was that about my brother – so help me, you'd better tell me! If you hurt him, if you've laid a damned finger on him - "

The vicious blow sent him spiralling, his various hurts shrieking in protest. It was foolish, and really he shouldn't, but he rose again like vengeance from the mud. He was fired by a red mist of anger and grief, head down and fists swinging wildly. _Didn't matter_ – all his hurts were forgotten, in a tangle of fury and pain. A bony crunch and one blow connected . . . _bastard's nose,_ he realised, with savagery. It was his last coherent thought for a while, and as a triumph, pretty sad and short-lived.

_Crack - crack._

The gunshots brought an end to it quickly. It was Jake, like a grotesque puppet-master. He lifted the gun with obvious difficulty and fired twice into the air. The sharp sound was a salutary reminder that the balance of power was against him, and the way he felt right at this moment – Don was no longer sure if he cared.

"Charlie – tell me about Charlie. What the hell did you do to my brother?"

Harrison picked himself up off the ground, brushing mud and dead leaves off his clothing. He cursed for a few seconds and glared sourly at Don, a stream of red spurting out from his nose. "Shouldn't have left him alone, Eppes. These here woods, well, you've seen they can be dangerous. While you were tucked up all safe in your nice little hole . . . brother Charlie, now, he wasn't quite so lucky."

"I don't believe you, you're playing me. There weren't any shots."

"Who said anything about a gun?" Harrison grinned, and reached down to his belt, withdrawing a razor-sharp, hunting knife. He examined the blade and whistled out loud, while watching Don's face all the time. "You know, the corps did have _some_ advantages. It sure taught me how to use a knife."

Jake spoke again, sounding excited, really turned-on by the idea of violence. His face twisted in feverish pleasure, an over bright sheen in his eyes. "Shoulda seen it . . . Kyle stuck him, he stuck him real good. He was crying, calling out for you to save him. Saying his big brother would come for him, right 'till the bitter end."

It was cold then – as cold as he'd ever known – and a black wave of wretchedness crashed over him. Don was choking, pulled down by the undertow, until he no longer felt any pain.

_Oh God, Charlie, I'm so very sorry. _

The words were futile and hopelessly inadequate.

Dark clouds billowed above him, as cruel and remorseless as omens. He shut his eyes against their pitiless brutality and surrendered to the false relief of stupor. The earth was red and he was sinking, sinking . . . and the sharp rain cried down on his face.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**_Disclaimer:_ -** _use of adult language_

**_A/N: -_** _Once again, a big thanks to all readers. Just a little warning that physically, things are getting much worse for Charlie, and he is most emphatically not behaving in his usual, rational manner, during some parts of this chapter._

_Lisa._

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Eight**_

Charlie knew he was behaving illogically, but so much for rules – _he didn't care_ – he was breaking them. He'd turned around and backtracked down the treacherous slope with an open and almost flagrant disregard. He had no particular strategy, and he knew his actions were impulsive if not foolish, and perhaps if circumstances were different, he would have certainly been more prudent instead. He was an academic, a mathematician, and by no means a high-octane, supercharged superhero. He'd seen too much, worked enough cases with Don, and he abhorred either the thought or sight of violence.

Man's inherent and all too frequent inhumanity to man – well, he detested it and quite frankly, it scared him. Why turn the evolutionary dial backwards when you could solve problems with reason and logic? Or failing logic, there was always discourse and dialogue, the substitution of ideas as an alternative.

And this, of course, brought him right back around in circles, to Phil Sanjrani, and the damned nuclear email. With hindsight, and some perception after the fact, he could see that he'd acted too impulsively, and however altruistic his purpose may have been, his behaviour had been precipitate and rash. Back then, it had all been so emotionally charged, and he'd been feeling betrayed – yes, and angry. Too frustrated by Don's apparent unwillingness to consider a wider global point of view.

In the end, it could never be that simple, as he knew now, with a little more wisdom. He could have helped, appeased his conscience in other, more subtle ways, without making it all about him and Don. Since then, he'd gone over things so many times, analysed it to the hilt of obsession. In retrospect, he wasn't happy with the way he'd behaved and had started to query his real motives.

Had he been outraged?

Indubitably.

Without question there had been a breach of human rights. To this day, he couldn't entertain the faintest shadow of a doubt, that Phil Sanjrani was a decent guy. As for the research – he'd been sure of its integrity. It had the potential to help millions of people. He felt he still had the moral high ground with regard to basic humanitarian principles. The trouble was, his country saw things differently, and it was the age-old constitutional argument. Science, for all its apparent wisdom or neutrality, was neither exempt from nor excluded from the law.

The same laws his brother had sworn to protect and uphold – the very statutes by which he lived his life and worked by. No wonder it had all seemed so personal when their two worlds had collided head-on. Charlie sighed – it had taken him a while to recognise and accept that _he'd_ been the one to make it contentious. From the second he'd keystroked the _'send'_ button and almost compromised his brother's career.

So much for lofty principles and ethics, always so clear and shining from a distance. He'd learned the hard way that you had to pay the piper when you confronted them more closely down to earth.

And could he honestly swear with his hand on his heart, that he had, one hundred per cent, never been compromised? Some of the government work he'd done in the past, all those equations and sets of numbers he'd worked on – they hadn't told him and he certainly hadn't asked them – and to this day, he didn't know what they'd been used for.

Losing his clearance had been unbelievably hard. It had hit him like a lightening bolt of clarity. What at first was an inroad to working alongside Don had ultimately become far more important. It meant something – something significant, and the work he did was valuable, even life-saving. He missed the satisfaction it gave him, the deep and valid sense of having done good.

_Deja-vu, here he was, breaking all the rules again._

He guessed David would be pretty pissed off with him, but now was not the time to fret about the consequences. To be honest, he couldn't care less what anyone thought; he just wanted to get back to Don.

Ought to have listened and done as they'd told him, first his brother and then secondly, David. Should have made for the basalt outcrop and waited until he knew it was safe. He laughed then, in-spite of everything, but the noise came out choked like a sob. How could they expect him to stay hidden away if there was any chance Don might be in danger?

He knew they were going to be furious, and to be fair, he could hardly blame them. Going back was foolish and irrational, and he was possibly risking his life. He was gambling – and he very rarely gambled – doing something crazy illogical; and behaving just like Harrison wanted him to, if the gunshots had been some sort of lure.

For a moment, he considered the cell-phone. He should use it now before he lost the signal. At least tell David where he was going and hope the man would understand why. He took it out and examined the signal bars. They were already weak and fading. His finger hovered over the speed dial, and then he chickened out, and sent a text instead.

Okay, so you could argue it was cowardly, and for a moment he almost laughed at the hypocrisy. He'd just become guilty of the very same sin which had made him so angry with Don. Yes, he was avoiding David, and disobeying a fundamental instruction, placing their lives in potential jeopardy, as he made his way back down from the ridge. The one fact remained irrefutable, and to him it transcended all others; far better to die out here in the woods, than slowly, at the mercy of cancer.

His hair was flattened and moulded to the shape of his skull as he pushed through the dripping undergrowth. The rain and wet leaves took no prisoners and pretty soon, he was thoroughly soaked. Strangely enough, it no longer seemed to matter, and he couldn't care less about the discomfort. He moved pretty quickly for a man with a bad knee as he re-traced his earlier flight-path, slipping and sliding down from the ridge through the towering ranks of trees.

The ache in his head was spiking again, but the pain only made things clearer. Odds on he was going to die anyway, so why not make it today. Maybe the humour was a little perverted, but it was candid and by no means lost on him. He was consumed with a strange mood of bravado which felt unlike him and very surreal.

Black bears, hypothermia and madmen with guns – with any luck, he would outwit the lot of them, and after that, he _might_ do as they'd told him, and hide away under some rock. It was just like the famous _Cheez Whiz_ incident, Charlie Eppes the reluctant, action-hero. He could out-smart and triumph over the best of them . . . _but the damned tumour would still get him in the end._

Right now, it was smaller than a peanut, less than one centimetre in diameter.

_'What we call a microadenoma . . .' _and it had taken up root inside his head.

No wonder he'd laughed – it was funny, in-fact, it was almost hilarious, and then he realised he was grinning inanely, and wondered if he was becoming unhinged. All those songs, all those stupid, macho songs, so beloved of angst-ridden teenagers, for the first time, he kind of echoed the sentiment.

_It was better to burn out than fade away._

In-spite of Harrison – _in-spite of everything_ – of all the menace and worry and danger, he felt powerful and strangely carefree, as he half-limped, half-slipped down the incline. If the Harrison's thought he was a light-weight, then boy, they had another thing coming. From a personal point of view, he didn't have very much to lose, and for the first time, he was unafraid to die. It was something he could use to his advantage, as though the tumour was a kind of secret weapon. In a detached sort of way, the thought was comforting, and Charlie kept it close and hugged it to himself.

It was quicker and far easier going downhill. He covered more ground and made better time. He could feel his heart racing at a rate of knots as the adrenalin pulsed and sang through his veins. It was futile trying to reason it out and there was no real point applying any logic, but the gunfire had been like a shot in the arm; it had re-energised and jolted him awake.

There was something – wasn't there something . . . he vaguely recalled reading up on it, about a dangerous lack of the hormone cortisol in response to some pituitary tumours. _Adrenal Crisis,_ he remembered it now, a severe side-effect of his illness. It was some kind of adrenal gland failure which could be triggered off by trauma and stress. It might be why he was feeling so goddamned strange, so out-of-character and emotionally labile. He couldn't recall ever having such intense moods before, or being quite so energiser-bunny, extreme.

Rationally, he wasn't fooled for a second, of course, and knew that really, he was physically exhausted. He was shaking, muscles jittery with weakness, as he pushed on through the demanding terrain. He found that it helped, as it always did, to run through lists of complex equations, like a shot of psychological black coffee, to steer his mind away from all the fear. The only trouble was, his temples were pounding - he'd sell his soul for a couple of Advil. The pain thumped with the remorseless monotony of a hammer beating inside his head. He wiped tears and snot and rain from his face with the hand not holding onto the stick.

He was worse – _much worse_ - he could acknowledge it now, and it no longer seemed to really matter. Perhaps he should have done a little more research to discover if he was heading for crisis. _Could it happen,_ he wondered, _and_ _was he really at risk?_ He didn't – couldn't really contemplate it. So why did he have the feeling he might be about to find out?

The numbers abandoned him, flew out of his head, almost as if they were deserting him. He had a sudden, uncomfortable image filled with rats and a fast-sinking ship. Anything – he could cope with almost anything - the fear forced the ground out from under him, but to lose the very numbers which defined him, left him fragile and brittle as glass.

This then, was his very worse nightmare. It came to him in a white flare of epiphany. Maybe more, _even more_ than losing his life, he was terrified of losing his genius.

A living death in an agony of normality – which was to him, even worse than brute ignorance.

_How could he function in a world of mediocrity while grieving for all he had lost?_

He simply couldn't go on any longer, so he paused, feeling bruised with emotion. The wretched tumour would change and suppress him, and the thought was just too shattering to endure.

Leaves dripped and rustled in the canopy above, the forest breathed, almost sentient around him. He could have sworn it was waiting for something - listening out for voices other than the rain. The foliage was so very dense here that the leaf canopy sheltered him a little. Leaning forward, he rested his free hand on a tree, and its gnarled trunk was wet and strangely comforting. After a while, he felt calmer and more grounded. He closed his eyes and took a lungful of air.

No wonder the ancients had worshipped the trees – had gone hunting for their gods in the forests. He was aware of the roots growing down into the soil, of something greater and far older than him. It was the texture of the bark and the scent of dead autumn, the reassurance of rough wood beneath his fingers. The arching shelter of cathedral-shaped branches and the soft shush and whisper of the leaves.

_Not random, though most people thought so . . ._

Like the view from Doctor Rosen's window.

If it wasn't for the rain or the throb in his head, then perhaps this was all a bad dream. But it wasn't, and really, he knew it. Don was still out there and so were the Harrisons. He'd given up on the small bone of comfort that they'd been frightened off by the bear.

A low hanging branch whipped back in his face and Charlie paused to take a look around him. The ground had begun to even out and he realised he was closer to the lake. The greenery was thicker, more abundant here, as the crowded tree line fanned down to the water. He glanced about for a familiar point of reference – they'd taken refuge behind a rocky outcrop – he remembered the forest floor had been slippery as they'd made their wild escape from the bear.

An echo of voices somewhere ahead through the trees, out of sight but undeniable. The resonance was carried back up through the swale, perhaps no more than a hundred yards away from him. Charlie froze, straining his ears to listen harder, but any further sound was muted by the rain. He moved cautiously, hugging the shadows, using the trees and denser undergrowth for cover. If he was right, and God, he really hoped he wasn't, it meant the Harrison's had already found Don.

_Already found Don._

As opposed to had killed him.

Relentlessly, Charlie pushed on through the rain, mind firmly closed to any other scenario. He was frightened, but not of bullies and guns any more, and for the moment, he forgot about the numbers. For the first time, the fear was different, he was all-consumed and engulfed by it. Scared witless that something out of his control would stop him and Don from growing old together.

This then, was as real and as grim as it got – and after everything, after all that had happened. Those things still mattered and he guessed they always would, but he was able to put them firmly in perspective. Phil Sanjrani and the clearance issue, even the divisive attempts of Agent McGowan . . . right now, they were all superseded by the more immediate danger they were in.

As for the tumour, he couldn't dwell on it at present. If he was fortunate, there might be time enough later. _Fortunate_ – the word was almost funny – the black humour of it stuck in his throat; _but he was,_ and in a way, he could see clearly now for the first time since receiving his diagnosis. The traumatizing sense of oppression had fled along with the dark wings of panic. As though he'd left it, in the thick of the forest, to be engulfed and absorbed by the trees.

A shaft of clarity bisected the shadows which had obscured the higher functions of his brain. For the first time in weeks, he was thinking straight and it felt unbelievably good. He was filled with a yearning to be home again. To be close to, and talk with his loved ones. To seek and accept all the help and support he knew they were capable of extending.

His old compulsion to seek escape in oblivion?

At last, the terrifying blankness was gone.

* * *

He was drifting in and out of confusion and didn't know what the heck they were waiting for. _Why they didn't just call an end to the proceedings, and put him out of his misery instead. _He lay where he'd fallen, too weak to move, the hitch in his chest like a buzz-saw; alternating between feeling remorselessly cold, and raging hot, like the fires of hell. It was a humiliating testament to how weak he was that they didn't even try to restrain him. No reason to – by now, he was resigned to the fact, and Harrison seemed happy to linger.

It had long-since occurred they had lied to him, just to add to, and compound his wretchedness. There was no real reason to keep him alive, unless, _please God,_ Charlie was still out there. If he was right – he disregarded the alternative – _if he was right,_ then that explained a lot of theories. He was live bait to tempt Charlie into a trap and they'd fired the gun as a lure.

No loose ends.

It was all pretty simple.

Don knew the Harrisons intended to kill them both whatever their original objective. The game had become deadly serious with no other possible outcome. No onlookers, no (human) eyewitnesses, and no one would be walking away. He clung onto the notion that Charlie was safe. It was his one ray of hope in the darkness. Several hours must have passed since they'd parted, and by now, he should be long over the ridge.

_God, please, Charlie, do as you're told for once. Just this one time . . . head down and keep walking. _

With any luck, if he'd managed to put in the call, there was a chance he'd make it out of here alive.

Mercifully, the rain had slowed down some, and was now more of a half-hearted drizzle. The water still dripped from the branches, rich with pine resin and the scent of crushed leaves. He was caked in dried blood from the numerous beatings, the side of his face stiff and sore with it. The thirst had returned with a vengeance and pain stroked through his veins like a pulse. He watched the Harrison's from under his eyelids; didn't want them to know he was conscious. His vision had become kind of fuzzy, a result of the concussion, he supposed.

They were sat on the wet ground some yards away from him, and Jake didn't look very good. His eyes were closed, his limbs were slack and a patch of blood darkened his shirt. _Good old Smokey_ – once again and not for the first time, Don offered up a silent cheer of gratitude. They would be dead already, if it wasn't for the bear, and he really hoped the big furry guy had made it.

He tried hard to stay optimistic. It wasn't all that easy, considering; but after observing the two men a while longer, not quite as cut and dried as first appeared. Jake was hurt – _really hurt_ – almost out of it, in-fact, and the thought gave Don a buzz of satisfaction. He detected a distinct whiff of smoke in the air – it was the sweet smell of bridges being burned.

The longer they were forced to stay up in the mountains, then the less chance they had of escaping. With any luck, he'd sown enough seeds of doubt about being in contact with his team. Don didn't underestimate Harrison; the man was by no means unintelligent, but by now he must surely realise that his window of opportunity was shrinking.

There were parallels here. Don wasn't stupid. The past and present all tumbled together, almost as though he was connected to Harrison by some dark and twisted skein of fate. In a way, it was all about brothers, how far you'd go, and what you'd do to protect them, but it was odd to imagine him and Charlie in _any_ context to Kyle and Jake.

Maybe not so much Jake.

This was all about Wayne.

Or at least it was supposed to be in theory. In all honesty, the truth was a lot darker, and Don knew they were dealing with revenge. The question had become pretty simple and Harrison was faced with a decision. When it all came down – if the shit hit the fan - would he abandon his little brother yet again?

The reflection caused a gut-clenching sliver of pain. What if they'd told him the truth about Charlie? He had a graphic and unprovoked image which slammed home the cruel words Jake had said. He shut his eyes and discovered he was shaking again, less from physical shock and more from reaction, but the pictures bombarded him, thick and fast, and if anything, more lurid than before.

_One last realisation and the descent of the knife . . . and then Charlie's eyes, wide and accusing. A sudden scent of crushed leaves, the sharp rent of the blade, and then blood and tears falling like rain. _

God, Charlie had wanted none of this. None of the danger and agony and death. At the end of the day, all he was after was the chance to work alongside his brother. And he knew it, lord help him, he knew it. The insight was sharp and condemning. He should have tried to keep their worlds separate, done the right thing and pushed Charlie away.

The simple truth was, he had wanted it too, and it came with an undoubted set of benefits. After so long, it was strangely paradoxical, he could turn his brother's gift to his advantage. There were undoubted rewards to working alongside Charlie and he'd be an idiot not to acknowledge them. Using his skills and having him as a consultant had changed the outcome on many a case.

Boy, that made it sound cold and it wasn't. Or at least, there was a little more to it. Their childhood had been so lop-sided and fractured; there was a lot he still found hard to understand. All his life he'd wanted to get clean away and then one day, he'd simply stopped running. There was a part of him – a very large part of him – which cried out to come home again.

Home, the very word was symbolic, or at least it was according to Bradford. All the things he'd missed out on when he was away on the road, state-hopping in Fugitive Recovery. It was the Koi pond, the warm aroma of cooking, the creak and crack of sun-stressed oak and mom and dad; and then somewhere, out of nowhere, and a little to his surprise, his brother had been thrown into the equation.

He'd thought at first, it might be simple nostalgia, he'd been on the road for so long; and then he'd taken the damned job in Albuquerque and fucked it all up with Kim Hall. Looking back, it was all so unreal to him now; the last bright glimpse of the rainbow. It wasn't long after that, dad had called him – the world had splintered when his mom became sick.

There was a song claimed that life was a circle – he was sure Charlie would disagree with the principle – but whatever the physics or math of the thing, he felt those lyrics made some kind of point.

The crazy mess of his relationship with Charlie, well, it sure wasn't for any want of trying. They both groped around blindly in the darkness, but in the end, he knew they wanted the same thing. He'd turned away once, feeling surplus to requirements, left his home and his hurt feelings far behind him. Then mom was dying, and he was left counting lost hours. He would never make the same mistake again. If he got out of this . . . _if they got out of this_ . . . but in truth, it seemed less and less likely. Chances were, he wouldn't last that much longer, he wasn't even sure if back-up would arrive.

_Come on, David _– he found himself praying.

If not for him, then for Charlie.

Because, _dear God, let them be lying to me_ – and his brother was still out there, alive.

He'd had a few pretty close calls in the past – taken big risks, and faced some tense situations – but here on the ground, in the rain-soaked woods, he knew he was teetering on the brink. He had a feeling he would never go home again and faced the prospect he was not going to make it. A wash of irony and anger flooded over him – like burnt honey, bittersweet and opaque.

Funny, but it seemed so simple now. Streams of words right at the ends of his fingertips. The declarations and overdue promises, all the things he'd been meaning to say.

To his dad and especially to Charlie . . . then there was Robin . . . he could picture her face. Pale-skinned and deceptively fragile, and yet underlined with a high-tensile strength. If he died, she was going to need it; their brittle plans would lie in ruins all around her. Cracked and broken, just like his promises, smashed to pieces like porcelain. He'd promised her and he'd promised Charlie, to stick around and always be there, beside them. Should have realised – should have kept his mouth shut. Fate was capricious, and there were no guarantees.

_He didn't want to die_ – there, he'd said it.

Life was rich, like a round golden apple, and for the first time in a sequence of dull and muddied-water years, he'd been filled with a new sense of hope. He'd been lost, groping around for such a long time now, but lately, things had started to get better. A lot of it was down to Robin, of course, and to the miracle they were together. There were times he'd felt destined to end up alone, staring down the barrel of his failed relationships; and that he'd ultimately renounced and would therefore be denied, all the dreams and ideals he'd once hoped for.

_Until Robin._

He gave thanks for second chances.

God, he wanted to see her again.

He knew then, with a sudden, despairing heart, that the odds were looking few and far between.

The leaves rustled and his skin prickled slightly – he looked quickly over at Harrison. The man showed no signs of having heard anything. He was wholly focused on Jake. Don rolled his head and tried to listen harder, slightly dismayed at how much the simple movement hurt him. In a way it would be kind of comical if good old Smokey had followed them here.

Not Smokey.

He felt a rush of despair.

It was a different type of animal entirely. His lesser-spotted, so-called genius, brother Charlie, wild-eyed and half-concealed behind a tree. He was horribly and almost abnormally pale, staring at Don as though he couldn't quite believe it. His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively, and Don saw he was shaking with fright.

_Oh Charlie._

It was hard to recover his scattergun thoughts and hang onto some sort of lucidity. Terror upped his adrenalin levels and dragged him away from the edge. He clung on and tried to rally, filled with a gamut of conflicting emotions. They ran the spectrum from anger to worry to fear and ended up somewhere around pride. After it all, after everything he'd promised, hell, he might have known Charlie would come back here. _It was_ - he had a swift rush of deja-vu - _like the email thing all over again._

"Back-up?"

He mouthed the words silently, he had to know, in-spite of the dread. If Charlie _had_ put the call in, then it would change how the next few minutes played out.

Charlie nodded, and Don closed his good eye with relief. As gestures went, it was simply beautiful. Now, in God's name, what was Charlie thinking of, he should have listened, he should have stayed safe. But in the end, that would not be Charlie; the wayward thought was wry and irrefutable. The air of arrogance came as part of the package, stamped indelibly into his genes.

"_Leave - "_ he channelled what was left of his anger. It wasn't easy, under the circumstances. He was frantic for his brother to get out of here, solely desperate for him to get away. _Goddam it,_ Charlie simply shook his head mutinously, and motioned toward Harrison instead.

This wasn't right, Don was desperate to concentrate, feeling off kilter and strangely out of focus. He had a sense, a sudden anxious premonition. There was something horrendously wrong. He tried harder but his injuries betrayed him, as though the physical world colluded against him. His vision blurred, too zigzag and hazy, spiralling off in a nauseating coil. He realised, with a sense of inevitability, that Charlie wasn't about to go anywhere.

Whatever happened, they were in this together.

_Right 'till the bitter end. _

_**TBC**_

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**_Disclaimer:_ -** _for the language_

**_A/N: -_** _This chapter is an all-actioner and pretty tough on both brothers. __Thanks again for reading - _

_Lisa._

**______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Nine**_

He approached with a great deal of caution, moving slowly and as stealthily as possible. From the moment he skirted around the clearing, he realised his worse fears had come true. Sure enough it was the Harrisons – he recognised Kyle's voice in an instant – he was holding a water bottle up to Jake's lips and trying to get him to drink.

Jake was bleeding; his shirt was covered in blood _. . . and know what, Charlie was glad._

He weighed up the situation rather cynically, looked like the odds had just switched slightly in his favour. Kyle might be more prepared to negotiate if his little brother's life was at stake. _Just like he was_ – the thought didn't escape him – it was absurd and fairly dripping with irony. Except that now, his moral compass had shifted, he would do anything to keep Don alive.

He remembered, not so long ago, at Emerson's, being trapped behind the piles of junk with David, fingers stuttering and trembling like the rest of him, as he held the heavy gun in his hands. Desperation had given him courage that day and he'd wiped out a few dozen cans of _Cheez Whiz._ He'd reflected then, and been pretty damned sure of it, he would never turn a gun on a man.

It was different now.

He was different.

The whole universe was on its side and twisted.

One way or another, it had all gone to hell and a few dainty principles be hanged.

Don lay on his own, a few feet away, curled on his side as though he was sleeping, but appearances could be cruelly deceptive and his brother was clearly in pain. Chances like this didn't occur very often, in-fact, he couldn't recall the last time it had happened; the opportunity of studying his brother when he was vulnerable and quite so unguarded. Even under the current circumstances, the dark humour didn't fail to escape him, and in a sick way it gave him a glimmer of hope. At least one part of his brain was still working.

How many times had he wanted or sought after this – for Don to be at his emotional mercy. Well, here he was, weak and susceptible, except the circumstances were wrong. God, he realised he would do anything to have a strong and fit Don right beside him. It was something he'd always taken for granted. The fact his brother made him feel safe. His world was a different place suddenly, and he was floundering in uncharted waters. Out of shift and ambiguous and infinitely more dangerous than he could have imagined or feared.

And talking of cosmic reversals, it occurred that he'd become the protector. It was his turn to play caped crusader, and this time, Don was relying on him. Oh, not for some crime-busting formulae or a nifty forensic equation – it was something rather more fundamental and a good deal more basic than that. His brother was hurt and hurt badly, but Charlie couldn't see any obvious bullet wounds. They'd fired the gun as a form of bait to lure him back through the woods.

Two birds for one stone – as easy as that – and here he was, like a lamb to the slaughter. Except that right now, he wasn't feeling quite so lamb-like, he was thinking more belligerent old ram. He wondered briefly, if it was the tumour – all this aggression and unexpected hostility – and then he looked once again at his brother, lying helpless and bloodied on the ground. Don wasn't able to put up a fight and must have been quickly overcome.

He switched his gaze thoughtfully to the root-cave and figured out what had happened in an instant; the earth around it had been partially subsided, turned to sludge and washed away by the rain. A sudden freak swell of floodwater must have cascaded in runnels from the hillside, breaking down and eroding the unstable soil banked up at the mouth of the hiding place. The whole event would be over in seconds, and the rush of water would have taken no prisoners, pouring into the bowl-shaped hollow, and then causing the whole structure to collapse.

He felt sick then and gave a brief shudder, and then suddenly, his body wouldn't stop trembling. It was the thought of being of being trapped in that hellish place . . . of being choked by a rush of wet mud. It was easy to envisage the scenario; thank God, Don hadn't been unconscious or sleeping. It was a marvel – no, better make it a miracle – he'd managed to crawl out in time.

Leaves shivered as his arm brushed a low-hanging branch, and Don rolled his head and looked towards Harrison. Charlie watched, as he stiffened with tension, and then looked directly up into his face. At any other time, it might have been funny. The look of anger and dismay was almost comical.

_No, strike that,_ Charlie studied him carefully, _Don was hurt and at the end of his tether._ He realised then, with a quick flash of insight, that he'd probably just dashed his last hope. With any luck, he – _Charlie_ – should be long gone, by now, somewhere safe and out of Harrison's reach. He guessed Don had been clinging on hard to that thought. It had probably been the only thing sustaining him.

He straightened up and refused to feel guilty. He'd had enough of Don's macho bravado. He wasn't a child who needed safeguarding or some kind of helpless _savant._ It was another lightning strike of awareness and the force of his anger astonished him, and not just towards Don, it was directed within, as he was forced to shoulder some of the blame. As a child he'd lived in need of Don's protection, always fostering that particular dynamic, and aside from all the practical advantages, it meant a little piece of Don was his.

Okay, maybe not the piece he really wanted, but as a scrap it was better than nothing.

He'd spent his earlier life looking for leftovers rather than facing up to Don like a man.

For the first time he was grateful to the tumour. It was kind of sick, but in a way, he liked this feeling. He'd come back, and Don better damned well live with it. He sure as hell, wasn't going to let him die.

Typical Don, he was asking about back-up, and Charlie inclined his head in confirmation. He glanced down at his wristwatch with surprise and relief when he registered the actual time. The sun should be directly above them, hidden fast behind the low-hanging rain clouds. It felt as though they'd been out here a lifetime, but in actual fact, it was just past midday.

_Oh yeah, time sure flies when you're having fun. _

Maybe linear time really was an illusion – he'd lost all sense and track of reality. When he got home, back to civilisation, then he'd have to talk to Larry about it, but right now, and far more significantly, it meant assistance should be close and on the way.

Until then, they were still very much on their own, and for once, it was Don who was helpless. Any chance they had of making it out of here alive was exclusively and wholly down to him.

He needed a plan and he needed it fast - some kind of zippy rescue equation, a little touch of the old-school Charlie, before the tumour shut down his thought processes for good. As for his head – he put a quick hand to his brow – the pain was building, rising up to a crescendo. He could feel the peculiar drag in his face as his eyelid started to twitch.

Now or never – it was now or never.

There was a sense it was slipping away from him, any last chances short-lived and fleeting. To surmount and fight the flesh and blood monsters, before he was consumed by the beast in his brain.

'_Go,'_ he could see Don imploring him.

He stepped backwards, indicating his refusal. It was clearer now – he had his equation. Lifting his arm, he gestured over the clearing and pointed to Harrison instead. For what it was worth, it was out of Don's hands. He no longer had a say in the proceedings. If they made it out alive, then he could rant all he liked, but right now, he had no intention of listening. Fading into the trees, he sucked a long draft of air, God, he needed it . . . needed the oxygen. His lungs lifted and expanded unevenly, as the last remaining dregs of panic drained away.

He could do this.

There was no room for doubt in his mind.

_He had to_ – he was a superhero.

And if he failed – if it all went pear-shaped – then at least he would know he'd damned well tried.

He circled the clearing on cat-feet, moving slowly because of his injury. He needed some kind of distraction – to get Harrison away from Jake's side. It was almost as if he had summoned it, some kind of thought-form or wishful thinking, but it seemed luck had turned in their favour at last, and the rejoinder was pretty impressive. A sudden roar cut through the hush of the woods as a black helicopter swooped in low over the trees . . . as distractions went, it was more than he'd hoped for, even in his wildest dreams.

He canted his head and looked up to the sky, _dear God, please let them see us_, and sure enough, the helicopter was circling again, coming in for a second pass. Charlie gave an audible sigh of relief as it looped around and hovered over them. He knew it would radio-in their position to the rescue teams on the ground. Trouble was, it just ramped up the ante, and he was horribly aware of the danger. The clock was ticking down on Harrison; he was a desperate man with nothing left to lose.

Charlie straightened and cast any last caution to the wind. Time was of the essence and he had to move quickly. The whir of the helicopter covered his tracks as he limped around and crept up on Jake. He stooped, ignoring the pain in his knee – it was nothing he couldn't put up with. In any case, it was of no comparison to the relentless thump in his head.

Harrison was on his feet now, eyes shaded as he looked upwards. He swore, as he watched the chopper's progress, dipping around like a bird overhead. For a brief moment he appeared undecided, face working with bile and frustration, but then he straightened with a shrug of resolution, lifting the gun as he turned towards Don.

His voice was bitter. "Looks like it's all over, Eppes. Funny, this ain't quite the way I planned it. Don't think you're gonna be saved by the cavalry this time, ain't no one getting out of here alive."

"It doesn't have to go down this way - " Don sounded weak and appallingly desperate, but still determined, like he had to keep trying. "What about your brother, think about Jake. They can treat him, get him to a hospital. Looks like that bear mauled him pretty badly - you don't help him, then he's gonna die. Wayne died because you refused to surrender that day. Come on, man, don't make the same mistake twice."

"Wrong," Harrison took a step closer, crouching down low at his side. He held the gun up to his forehead, and stroked it lightly over his temple. "Wayne died because of you, don't you get it? And then my old man never spoke to me again. I shipped out to Iraq without so much as word. He wouldn't forgive me, couldn't get over it. All of this – _everything_ - it ain't just about Wayne. I'm doing it to square things with both of them."

"They're dead," Don was brutal, "but Jake's still alive. How about you square things with him?"

"No," Jake spoke agitatedly, weak and querulous from severe loss of blood. "Don't you listen to him. Just do it, Kyle, get on and finish it. I'll be all right, don't pay no mind to me."

It was time now, and Charlie knew it. His head pounded harder than ever. The stubborn pain that had dogged him ever since this began, and seemed linked to his appalling ordeal. He looked up at the sound of voices, carried in on the air, through the trees. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and he realised – _at last_ - help was close at hand.

Forgetting about his knee, he stepped forward, and the damaged joint buckled beneath him. Sickened and dazed by a fierce burst of pain, he nearly didn't see Jake reach for the knife. The movement only shocked him for a second; it was all he could afford, _all they had, _and then he lifted the makeshift walking stick, and swung it down on Jake's badly mauled arm.

Dropping the stick, he made a grab for the knife, and then skidded down onto the carpet of leaves. Jake cried out, his back arched in agony, and then Charlie was on him again. He worked quickly and efficiently; feeling oddly detached, and gave brief thanks for his two-day FBI seminar. He considered the moves, went through all the motions, as he hooked his arm beneath the man's chin.

Some part of him was worried about his lack of concern, vaguely astonished by his want of compassion, but this was no time to sweat the small stuff, no point agonising over it now. The hunting knife was large and unwieldy, but honed to within an inch of its life. He balanced it and gripped tight hold of the hilt before resting it over Jake's jugular. He thought back to the lecture, and did as he'd been taught, bearing in mind to angle the blade vertically. It was like working through a mental equation with a strange and dispassionate sense of calm.

His swift move took them all by surprise, and Harrison spun around savagely. He half rose and then sank back down again, when he Charlie's hand on the knife.

"Don't," Charlie's voice was abnormally unruffled. He gestured down at the weapon. "Drop the gun and step away from my brother. It's over. Just do it – _now."_

He didn't waver – could see both men staring at him – mainly Harrison but also, his brother. Even though Don's face was swollen and distorted, he still saw the raw fear in his eyes.

"Charlie - "

"It's all right, Don, I've got this covered. I'm prepared to do whatever it takes. We need to get you down off this mountain – and I have an appointment to keep."

Gripping hold of the knife a little tighter, he understood that yes, he would do it. Hard as it was, there was no real question, and he was sure, without a shadow of a doubt. If the lone choice was saving his brother's life, it was the only deal spread out on the table. He'd moved on a stage from worrying about his conscience, or fretting over any sense of right and wrong. All that mattered now was getting Don out of here, and in his heart, he knew there wasn't much time.

Jake groaned and pushed at him feebly, he was loose-limbed and barely conscious. _Cheez Whiz Charlie_ might have wavered, would have been tempted to let him go, at this point. It was a straight choice between reality and ethics, and right now, moral codes were standing in his way. He was aware then, how horribly difficult it was, and how hard it must be for his brother. No wonder Don had questioned past judgements, when he'd confronted this type of dilemma. All that unspoken, taciturn soul-searching, and the sessions with Doctor Bradford, he saw it all with sparkling clarity, and at long last, he understood.

It was easy to have lofty principles when you didn't have to get your hands dirty; to pontificate and preach from a safe distance, if you never had to lay it on the line.

"Help," he didn't waste anymore time. "Hey, over here, we're over here." His voice echoed down through the clearing, to his own ears, unnaturally loud. Ignoring the dizziness and fresh burst of pain, he paused and then repeated the shout, almost overcome by a wave of relief when some sharp blasts on a whistle filtered back to them.

"Shut up," Harrison wrenched Don's head backwards, and jammed the gun up against his temple. His whole body was tense, almost feral, as he smiled and spoke softly again. "Looks like we got ourselves an impasse."

"Let it go." Don's breath was coming in short little gasps and Charlie could see he was trembling, clearly finding it tough to stay lucid as he tried reasoning with Harrison, one last time. "They're here – may as well surrender. Give it up, and let them help Jake."

Harrison ignored him. "He's bluffing. No way he has the balls to use it. Now, what say you concentrate on _your_ brother, and toss over that nasty big knife?"

I don't think so," Charlie spoke softly. He was afraid now and his vision was fading. He didn't know how much longer he could do this – he hoped David would get here soon. Never in all his wildest dreams had he been faced with such a terrible stalemate, to have bravery and horror simultaneously co-exist in two equilateral parts.

He blinked and cleared some of the sweat from his eyes. It didn't help any with the fuzziness. His muscles were shaking and taut with fatigue, as he braced and tried his best to hold on. _Must concentrate_ – he fought hard to focus – and steadied his gaze upon Don.

All this, it was like a very bad dream, one of the weird kind where you're utterly helpless. He couldn't run now, even if he wanted to, couldn't influence the outcome in any way. Right here, at the finish, it was all about love. The story of two sets of brothers. He was basing his entire strategy on any loyalty Kyle had for Jake. Put it down to his nemesis the tumour, because the concept was totally crazy, risking it all on uncertainties and gambling on Heisenberg again.

He was hoping in the end, that Kyle loved Jake, just a little bit as much as he loved Don.

"_Charlie - " _

He barely heard Don choke the warning in time – only just registered the desperation in his voice. Kyle struck fast, uncoiling up from the ground, as he dragged a wilting Don to his knees. The movement had gained him a couple of feet, and now he was closer, more menacing. He smiled and looked deliberately at Charlie, eyes fixed and unnaturally bright.

"Know how easy it is to break a man's neck? Tried it out on a couple of Saddam's boys. I can give you a quick demonstration – or else you can throw down the knife. I plan on leaving, on making it out of here, but I have to know Jake is all right."

"No - " Don hardly managed to gurgle the word. "Don't listen, buddy, he'll kill you . . ." he broke off, gasping and wheezing, as Harrison locked a strong arm around his neck.

"Better make your mind up, _Charlie;_ we don't have a lot of time left."

He felt like they'd spun around full circle and returned to where they were in the beginning, Don had refused to gamble back then, and statistically, he had been right. By the lake, the odds had been stacked against them, but now things were palpably different. David Sinclair was a matter of minutes away and they had a slim chance on their side. He pushed at the encroaching shadows and took a moment to consider the options. Closer now – he heard the rescue teams approaching, as they made their way down through the trees.

Harrison regarded him as soft and naïve – that much was plainly evident. He didn't know, hadn't weighed up the variables, and refused to take them into account. As suppositions, they were arrogant and dangerous, and such assumptions could be turned against him.

_He didn't think Charlie was prepared to kill – or even less, that he was ready to die. _

So, the man planned on leaving his wounded brother alone, of killing them both and then absconding. And to think he had compared them as brothers - _it told him all he needed to know._ He considered Don with his appalling injuries, and doing everything he could to defy them, still holding his head up defiantly, as he stared Charlie straight in the eye. Harrison was right about one thing, time was not on their side.

He inhaled and allowed it to centre him. Things were clear again, he felt steady more balanced, but he knew he was physically weaker, and what last strength he had set in stone. Harrison had trained the gun on him, and he knew it was now or never.

"You have no intention of letting us go – not me and especially not my brother. You think you can safely shoot me – that I can't or won't use the knife. Once I'm dead, you'll kill my brother, for sure, and then you have a chance of escaping. The FBI will get Jake to the medics, so it's okay to leave him behind."

"No," Jake moved restlessly against him. "No, Kyle, tell him it's a lie."

Don swallowed, and spoke up, his voice cracked with pain. "He's right, Jake, and you'd better listen. He's gonna leave you and make his way out of here. Let the Feds take you into custody, just the same as he did to Wayne."

"You'd leave me?" Jake strained, then fell backwards, too weakened to move. He was fading now, ashen from blood loss. "No, it ain't true. Kyle wouldn't . . . _you wouldn't_ . . ."

"Shut up!"

Harrison reacted with a fresh surge of fury, as he realised his prospects were diminishing. He was sweating and palpably twitchy as he looked around and scanned through the trees. He tightened his elbow viciously and Don sagged like a broken puppet, his head lolled forward onto his sternum, limbs slackened and devoid of strings.

"See, Charlie, you see what happens?"

"I see a coward who's prepared to leave his brother."

"You know what, it's really kinda funny," Harrison couldn't help gloating. He cuffed Don onto the ground again and then rolled him with the toe of his boot. "I get it; I ain't nothing like him. But you and me, I guess that's a different matter. We got something in common, after all. Jake, now – it's my fault this happened to him – like it's your fault this happened to your brother. Guess it's lucky then, you don't have to live with it. With what went down back at the lake."

"Right about one thing, you're nothing like him." Charlie was stalling, but the words still hurt him. "You wouldn't know sacrifice if it jumped up and bit you. The kind of choices Don lives with - is forced to make everyday. He put me first, ever since we were children. He missed so much, gave up so much for me, and at the time I never realised."

He pressed down and readied his good leg, trying to gain purchase as he braced his thigh muscles. He was only going to get one chance at this, and he could lever himself up using Jake. He felt composed and almost strangely disembodied as he prepared to take this last course of action. It was better to burn out like a single, bright star, trailing clouds of astral dust across the heavens; to go out in an intense blaze of glory instead of dimming and wasting away.

Harrison steadied the semi and thumbed back the hammer. The endgame was close at hand now. The man had moved far beyond reasoning, and Charlie realised there were only seconds left.

"You're exactly the person I thought you were. Totally selfish, you never cared about your brothers. Those things you said back at the lakeside, you have no right to compare yourself with Don. The difference is my brother would die for me - he's always been my very own superhero – and the factor you failed to consider is, that I too, am prepared to die for him." Charlie smiled, and shifted his eyes to a point behind and to the right of Harrison. "But now it looks like I won't have to. Tell him,_ David_ . . ."

Harrison half-turned, swearing viciously, then swung back, his reactions kicking in. His mind was fast, his response even faster, and he'd scarcely begun to fall for the old gag. All he allowed was the briefest second of time, and Charlie barely pushed himself off the ground, but Harrison recovered in an instant, and casting Don aside, he lined up his gun.

It was finished now, in every sense of the word, and Harrison was going to kill him.

This was it then, _all over,_ he'd played his last hand.

Charlie let the knife slide from his fingers.

Don lurched to his feet with a last rush of strength, reaching out as he flung himself sideways. He clung desperately to Harrison's gun arm, all his weight on it, forcing it down. It gave Charlie a few vital seconds of grace and he started forwards, convulsively. He made it a couple of metres and then Harrison regained the advantage. The man jack-knifed his leg and thrust Don away, the kick sharp and brutally savage, and then he looked up and smiled arrogantly at Charlie before raising the weapon once again.

"Enough - " his finger tightened and Charlie knew it was the end.

But it wasn't - _not quite_ - and with a last crazy effort, Don rose up in front of the gun.

It all slowed down to a hazy blur as Harrison put pressure on the trigger. Charlie cried out – aware he was falling again, as he twisted his injured knee. The world exploded into colour and movement, and then suddenly, they weren't alone in the clearing. He heard David's voice shouting instructions, but he only had eyes for Don. Miraculously, his brother was still standing, gasping for breath, and holding onto his ribcage. There was no sound, no echo of a gunshot, and incrediby, _some might say by the grace of God,_ Charlie realised the weapon had jammed.

Harrison stopped, and stared down at the gun, his face an astounded picture. He had less than a second to register its failure, before it was knocked from his grasp.

"On your knees," Colby Granger thrust a hand on his shoulder. "Do it now – face down on the ground."

Charlie struggled to get up, but it was taking too long, and his right leg felt practically useless. He seemed to be stuck in slow motion, almost immobile and frozen in time. He was afraid now, really frightened for Don, feeling sickened by what might have happened. His brother's eyes were fixed and clouded, open wide without seeing a thing.

"_Don, no!"_

He tried to catch him – _or maybe he thought he did_ – reaching forwards as Don buckled and fell. The sky was spinning, careening away from him, and he couldn't seem to make himself heard. Dark blades above him, thumping and whirring, and fractured images of bear claws and hunting knives. Then David's hand on him, warm and reassuring . . . the scent of blood mingled in with his tears.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**_Disclaimer:_ -** _For adult language_

_**A/N: -**_ _The boys have been rescued, but remain in bad shape, as the first part of this chapter might indicate. Sometime between the rescue and somewhat later events, it represents a little look inside Don's head. Once again, thank you so much for reading and reviewing this story. Your kindness is very much appreciated. _

_Lisa_

**_______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Ten**_

Don opened his eyes and blinked up at the sun which enveloped him and shimmied on the water. He was lying back, must have been drowsing, the fishing pole dipping down in his hands. It was an effort to move and he felt oddly frail, filled with weakness and a strange sense of lassitude, and it was almost too tempting just to go with the flow and drift off to sleep again.

_No, there was something_ – just a prickle of awareness – more of vigilance and not really danger. Just a sense that for various reasons, it was imperative he should stay awake. He pushed himself up on his elbows and shifted sideways in search of his brother. Charlie sat on some rocks a couple of yards away, shading his eyes as he stared across the lake.

"Penny for them?"

Charlie sighed and the sound was distinctly wistful. He didn't move or even bother turning around. "Don't think they're worth all that much. Not anymore."

Don frowned and studied the back of his neck. It was pale and seemed conspicuously vulnerable. By rights, he should be looking at a riot of curls, not a shorn line of darkened re-growth. Subconsciously, he reached up to his own head. It was ironic that _his_ hair was longer, and of late he'd eschewed his usual rigid short cut, because Robin preferred it this way. Of course, he wasn't going to let it run too wild – not a chance - the mere thought made him shudder, and if it meant losing out on the scalp massages, it was a sad risk he'd just have to take.

Nope, he wasn't going back down that route, no chance, not even for Robin. Not after a lifetime of wrestling with the dreaded Eppes curls and insisting on wearing it short. To this day, he remembered the tears in mom's eyes when he'd first won that particular battle.

It had been something to do with the aunts, he recalled, and the way they got all misty when they looked at him. They'd waxed lyrical over his ringlets and the angelic length of his hair. It was customary in Jewish lore to leave a boy's hair uncut until he was three, and although mom and dad weren't particularly religious, they'd chosen to adhere to this tradition. He'd kicked up an almighty fuss after that, and in the end, dad marched him off to the barbers, where he'd been trimmed and snipped and subsequently buzz-cut, to within half an inch of his scalp.

Much later, it had taken on new significance, in the grim weeks following mom's chemotherapy. When her hair began falling in handfuls and he could see her loss of hope and despair. He'd cried then, in the privacy of his bedroom, the day she'd asked him to make a few phone calls, and it was her turn to insist on a radical new look when the hairdresser came out to the house.

He didn't know why it should bother him now, or why Charlie's hair was suddenly so important, but he knew that somehow, it was of consequence, and that the thought had jogged his memory for a reason.

Talking of memories, he felt saddened, half-annoyed with himself. Must be the quiet, but he was feeling nostalgic. There was something soothing almost soporific about being up here by the lake. The late sun was warm but not overly hot as it flashed and glittered over the water, accentuating shadows in the tumble of rocks with a watercolour wash of rose and slate. The light was shifting and subtly thinned, to his eyes, almost unbearably fragile. The landscape tinged with an ethereal outline of gold and the hazy allusion of a dream.

Don smiled then, and shook his head ruefully.

Since when had he become so poetic?

From the time he'd started searching for answers, asking more questions, and accepting he'd changed. It was strange how things were slotting into place now, just like a puzzle or a melodic piece of music, and every note, each intonation made more sense to him, somehow harmonious and less discordant to his ear.

It had started with the Erika Hellman case and an insistent tug towards his identity. The odd notion a part of him was dormant yet still called out and sang in his veins. It was funny thinking back to his childhood because his family had never been religious. Being Jewish had meant more about heritage than any spiritual sense of the word. _Not any longer,_ he could acknowledge it now, and concede the enrichment it gave him. He was starting out with baby steps along a well-trodden road, and had a feeling his long search was over.

Until now, he'd been pretty unsure of it all, so he'd kept quiet and been fiercely protective. His feelings were nascent even vulnerable, so he'd stayed reticent and hugged them to himself. He was neither self-conscious nor uncomfortable, and it wasn't that he was embarrassed. It was rather that he wanted to tread lightly and explore this brand new world in private.

Charlie was so definite, so staunchly convinced in the complete non-existence of the spiritual. He'd made his thoughts absolutely unambiguous, and in a way, Don admired him for that. On the other hand, it was also intimidating and put the kibosh on any further discussion. Which explained his reluctance to talk about his faith and was kinda why he'd kept his mouth firmly shut.

He sighed – he wished it could be different. That it had _always_ been different between them. The problem had never been a shortage of love, rather a fundamental lack of understanding.

He really didn't want Charlie dissing this – not now it was so surprisingly important. Not after he'd taken such a major step forwards and set fire to some bridges on the way. Don knew, by now, when to leave well-alone and not veer into fruitless discussion. There could be no winning of arguments with Charlie, not when he was certain he was right.

His brother would give him that patent smile – _the one reserved for small children and FBI agents _- and then launch into all sorts of reasons, a whole plethora of mathematical explanations why the metaphysical couldn't possibly exist. He supposed it was the arrogance of genius – and most of the time, he was able to put up with it. To shrug it off and argue his own corner, and if all else failed, reach for a beer.

But this, well, _this_ was not up for scrutiny.

He didn't want it laid under the microscope.

He hoped Charlie might someday respect that choice, even if he didn't understand.

Talking of Charlie . . . he looked across at his brother. There was something he felt he ought to be remembering. A small concern beyond the fringes of his consciousness, it was almost there, yet dancing out of reach. His brow crinkled as he sought to recall what it was, but the memory was vague and elusive. It diminished like his view of the mountains, fading away behind the mist shrouded peaks. For some strange reason, his vision was blurred and he shook his head in an effort to clear it. A mistake, as he then found, and to his unexpected cost, unprepared for the white shaft of pain.

A lowering cloud moved across the sky casting long shadows and darkening the waters. They lapped around him, suddenly sinister, deep and immeasurably black. Don shivered and the sense of harmony was gone. The granite rocks stretched and towered around him. Charlie sat, just a few feet away from him, nonetheless, he felt oddly alone.

"Hey, Chuck?"

He took refuge in pushing Charlie's buttons, seeking to recapture his earlier serenity, but the mood had changed along with the weather, and there was a strange sense of dread in the air.

"Charlie?"

He was beginning to panic now and there was still no answer from Charlie. It was as though his brother couldn't hear – _couldn't see him_ – as he continued to stare over the lake. The wind whipped up across the surface of the water. The glassy calm became roughened and choppy. It brought the rain clouds down off the mountain tops and blew Charlie's hair back from his face.

"Time to go."

The same wind snatched the last of his breath away, the cruel squalls seizing the air from his lungs. He reached up and loosened his collar, but it didn't seem to make any difference. He tried to inhale and then realised his chest hurt. The pain ripped through him like the blade of a knife. Something was wrong and he was truly afraid.

The world around him revised and altered as the rosy-tipped ambience vanished. Storm tossed clouds flogged the leaden sky and the light silvered eerie and monochrome. He flailed and lost his grip on his fishing pole, fighting hard to overcome the shock of terror, and then he was sliding down the rocks into the water, being dragged into the black depths of the lake.

He tried to get up but there were hands on him. Keeping him down and pushing him flat again. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, there was a weight on his chest . . . struggling to talk, but he couldn't explain. He fought them with every last ounce of strength. Needed to move, wanted to get back to Charlie. There was something he had to remember, something he'd said or a promise he'd made.

It was hopeless, dear God, he realised it was hopeless.

He couldn't speak, couldn't make himself heard.

He was fighting and gasping with fear and pain, trying to make them understand what he was saying. There was danger waiting out there in the mountains, a deadly menace stalking through the trees.

The same hands were moving all over him and blocking his last feeble efforts. They were stronger than him, more restraining, and then Don realised there was nothing he could do. One last look at the rock but Charlie had gone, slipping inexorably down under the surface.

Couldn't get to him, couldn't reach out and save him.

_It was too late and Charlie had drowned. _

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

Something was missing, he couldn't quite place it, and a sudden sense of panic rippled through him. Trapped behind a white wall of stillness and calm; for the moment, he was aesthetically lost. The scent of trees and damp earth and the dark thump of blades . . . they were gone now, all torn away from him. Charlie lay very quiet for a moment or two and then at long last he opened his eyes.

A shaft of sunlight shone into the room casting zebra stripes across the counterpane. There was someone standing next to the window, looking out through the vertical blind. He turned his head on the pillow and tried to take it all in. He was clearly in some kind of hospital. There was a monitor keeping tabs on his heart rate and an IV in the back of his hand.

He felt terrible, weak and battered. His gut roiled and churned with nausea. His head pounded with each sullen surge of his pulse and every joint in his body ached. He blinked and his acuity sharpened, the room swinging into sharpened focus, and then she turned with a sudden intake of breath, the sunlight gleaming on her long black hair.

"Oh, Charlie, thank God."

She moved across to the bed, her voice subdued almost as though she'd been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed, a little swollen, and it was then he realised she still was.

"Amita - " _dear lord, he sounded terrible._ Charlie cleared his throat and tried again. "How . . ."

"Hush," she reached for the call-bell. "I'd better let them know you're awake."

The feel of her soft hand was comforting and he clung on, gripping tightly to her fingers. For a while he simply lay there and floated, lost in a world between sleeping and waking. In the distance, a black cloud was hovering but for now, he shied away from remembering. It was far easier to drift here in limbo rather than face the truth he knew waited out there.

After a while he opened his eyes again. The sun had shifted and the stripes adorned the wall now. He must have been out of it for several more hours and it was much later on in the day. If anything he felt even wearier than before, or at least, from a physical aspect, but things made a little more sense to him, coalescing with a sharper cohesion.

Amita still sat in the chair beside the bed. Other than that, the room was empty. He told himself it was good thing. _It was a good sign dad wasn't here._ It meant that by implication, he had some place other to be.

"Where are we?"

He forced the age-old question. He couldn't bring himself to ask the other, all important one. The thought of it was simply too painful and he knew they would tell him soon enough. She raised her head, a look of joy on her face, eyes drained and lack-lustre with fatigue. He felt irrevocably guilty; his fear and silence had brought her to this.

"Fresno, Saint Agnes Medical Centre. This is the - " her voice broke down and faltered. "Oh, Charlie, it's been two whole days."

He could hardly believe it. "Monday?"

"You've been unconscious since they brought you in here. You went into adrenal crisis. You had a seizure on board the helicopter and they were afraid you might sink into a coma."

"I'm sorry."

He didn't really need to apologise, or at least not for having the seizure, but right now, he felt sorry for so many things, and he knew the words had to be said. She nodded and her bottom lip trembled and then she looked at him with tacit understanding. There was sympathy and implicit forgiveness, but her eyes stayed wet with sadness and tears.

"I know, but this isn't really the time. Now you're awake, we can talk about it later. They're treating you with intravenous steroids to get your cortisol back to something like normal. Once it reaches an acceptable level, then they can re-schedule your surgery again."

He looked up at the clear plastic tubing dripping liquids and drugs into his system. It reminded him of wet leaves and sodden branches - of leaden skies and the rain-soaked woods. He cleared his throat, feeling unutterably weak, almost too brittle to ask the million dollar question. It all hinged on the next couple of seconds, and for good or ill, he had to know the truth.

"Where's dad?"

Even now, he was asking in a roundabout way, still hedging bets and avoiding the subject. He lost some of his nerve then and wavered, and the silence nearly broke him again.

_Don stood up. Don fell. _

_He couldn't catch him. _

_Don stood in front of the gun to take the bullet. _

_Don was grey, having difficulty breathing, his face as pale as the rain-washed skies. _

He was stricken by a sequence of images, overwhelming and none of them pleasant. Senses flooded with a tumult of data as a vice of pain clamped tight around his head. Sheer terror and the whump of the helicopter blades, a nightmare jangle of sound and awareness. A brief impression of despair and futility and of the gun pointed straight at his head.

The weapon had jammed – he remembered it now. Not unlike a stay of execution. A frozen moment of fate and mortality stuck forever in the annals of time.

"Where's Don?"

His voice sounded strangely childlike and he was terrified of hearing the answer, but in the end, he had to ask the question. Had to quieten down the clamour in his head.

Amita lowered her eyes. "I'll get Alan."

"Wait, Amita, please - "

"I think it's better if you talk to him."

She let go of his hand and moved out of the room, leaving him alone with the white and the silence. He stared dully at the butter-coloured sunshine as the stripes worked their way up the walls. The glare was so relentlessly bright it hurt his eyes to even look at it. He would far rather lie here in the darkness and wished they would come in and close the blinds.

The rain and the trees still nudged at him like a gamut of post-mortem memories. He turned his head on the pillow, far too broken to let them come in. If after everything, it had all been futile, all the pain and struggle and effort; well, he knew then, it didn't mean anything. Not if, in the end, Don was dead.

In the year preceding the tumour he'd been feeling pretty invincible. More confident and settled than ever before, his life had rolled on a series of highs. The book had brought a moderate dose of fame and the royalties had boosted his bank account. Along with CalSci and his external consulting gigs, he had his work with the FBI.

Wherever he went, he was in high demand. Doctor Charles Eppes, the lauded professor. For the first time ever, if he'd chosen to, he could have embarked upon a glittering social whirl. He had plenty of admirers, no doubt about that, but he was wise enough to see past the hype. He could still count his true friends on his fingers. He had everything he wanted out of life.

Had he been cocky or arrogant?

He guessed there might be some who would say so. And if arrogance equated to self-confidence, well, then, they were probably right. He was sure of his gift and bright genius with math and convinced of his own singular abilities. One of the honoured few with special access to a world filled with clarity and exceptional light.

He remembered something Larry had said to him once, about youth and the arrogance of genius. _Oh, to be young and brilliant and full of yourself._ It made him question now, if Larry had been right. For the first time, he wondered which had come first, the tumour or the goddamned email, and in light of all the subsequent happenings, had it been cause or effect?

He clenched his fists on the counterpane. In the end, it had all been so simple. Last Friday, when Doctor Rosen had told him the truth, all he had wanted was Don.

The door opened quietly and dad came in alone. Some end to his golf trip in Vegas. He looked shattered, eyes shadowed with unspoken grief, as he sat down in the chair by the bed. Charlie opened his mouth but nothing came out. The speech died in his throat, choked and frozen. He was unravelling, freefalling through empty layers of void, and besides, what the hell could he say?

Alan reached across and placed a hand on his arm, and the gesture was absurdly comforting. It conveyed love and relief and so much more without platitudes or unnecessary words. "Amita told me you asked about Don?"

"Please, just tell me."

He was afraid of the answer, and of the sorrow which seemed to cling like a miasma. Afraid of hearing it had all been for nothing and he would never see his brother again.

"He's alive. Only just - " Alan's voice broke with anguish and Charlie felt his hand tremble. "At first, they didn't think he would make it. Those two men, they hurt him so badly." He took a breath before he continued, too overcome by a wash of emotion. It was clearly affecting him terribly, but then he rallied and soldiered on. "The broken ribs caused problems with his breathing . . . a punctured lung and probably pneumonia. He has a break in the bone around his eye-socket, cerebral oedema and a fractured skull. He's in ICU in a coma. They – _they_ can't guarantee he'll wake up."

"Dear God."

Charlie closed his eyes and took it all into account - all the details of the beating coming back to him; the look of maniacal glee which shone on Harrison's face and the dull thud of boot against flesh. He shivered as the man's words rebounded on him – about them having something in common – that it was his fault Don suffered the beating. Perhaps he _should_ have done more by the lake.

Logistically, he knew he was grasping at straws, there was nothing and Harrison had been playing him. It didn't stop the insidious helix of doubt or the coil of self-blame in his head. It _had _been his idea to go fishing and for a whole bunch of selfish reasons. Telling Don had been a kind of compulsion, and like a vampire, he'd been dependant on his strength. At the same time, deep-down, Don had realised. He'd guessed something was up with his brother. It was why he'd bitten the bullet and driven up to the lake.

Charlie felt a pang of self-loathing, as looking back, he forced himself remember. He'd been too self-absorbed to even notice Don's pain on the long journey out of LA. As a pill, it tasted so damned bitter on his tongue, but there was no point being overly-dramatic. He knew he wasn't solely at fault here. _It didn't stop him from wanting to cry. _If Don had only been a little more open with him . . . yeah, well, then flying pigs would take to the skies.

He wanted to ask about the Harrison's, but some deep abhorrence made him hesitate. It was bad enough he'd let Kyle get to him – that the man had climbed inside his head. No, the Harrison's could wait a little longer, because for now, he had to focus on his brother. His health and well-being depended upon it – they were linked by an invisible chain.

_There was no question Don would get better._

No question, and hadn't he promised?

That he would be there, and lend his strength for the surgery, because Charlie was counting on him?

Charlie sighed, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. The load of sorrow was almost too much for him. He should have handled the whole thing more openly, more maturely right from the start. The threat of cancer had acted like a physical blow, stripping any fragile semblance of normality, and to his chagrin, he'd reacted with sheer terror and retreated into a world of his own. As world's went – it wasn't a nice one. Filled with dark skies and swirling with panic. Swept breathlessly along at high velocity, and thrust head first into a vast and bleak unknown.

It was crucial he say it. "I'm sorry, dad."

First Amita and now his father. The reasons might have been different, but the inherent need was the same. _The best laid plans of mice and men,_ dear God, he almost choked on the cliché. He'd been so very damned sure he was saving them from pain, so convinced he was doing the right thing. The lake trip had seemed like the answer to his prayers and telling Don had been the solution.

_Not now_.

He perceived it all with fresh eyes, and God, _he ached,_ what the hell had he been thinking? Using his brother as a shield to avoid all their hurting, he saw with hindsight, it was only evasion. A way of distancing himself from reality. And, _dear lord, if he was brutally honest,_ another smokescreen for P v NP.

"Oh, my son, why didn't you tell me?"

Charlie stiffened, the hurt feelings were palpable, yet more cause for self-recrimination. An unbidden sob rose up in his throat, he didn't know if he could deal with this now. _Don was_ . . . Don might be dying, and he was lying here self-absorbed in his feelings. He looked up in sudden frustration and spoke more sharply than he'd intended.

"Dad, can we just . . . can we just _please_ not do this right now? Not at present, while Don's still in danger. I should have told you – should have trusted you all, but at this instant, it's all too overwhelming." He might have flinched at the brief flash of distress on dad's face, come and gone and then disguised in an instant. At any other time it would have hurt him, but he was strangely impervious today. "I understand you're upset, I guess I would be too, and I know now my actions were misguided. I planned on telling you when we got back from the lake. That's why I went up there with Don."

"I see." Alan was oddly calm. "So, in effect, you asked your brother to play linebacker."

"If you like."

His voice faded away and he was so very tired. There was a part of him which couldn't really be bothered. All the reproach, all the anguish and heartache, he didn't want to get into it now. A flash of insight and then he understood a little. Both mom and Don – they really were so similar. Each reliant on their own private armoury to either deal with or deflect any pain.

Drifting, he was drifting away again, and ducking down behind a smokescreen of inertia. In lieu of talking, he squeezed dad's fingers, and hoped he would understand. He watched the drips – they were mesmerising – and in a way, surprisingly soothing, willing the steroids to work a little bit faster, and then he could get back on his feet. He guessed they would transfer him out of here once his cortisol levels were normal. He needed stabilising prior to surgery and Doctor Rosen was based in LA.

Anger shuddered through him, and then an onslaught of grief. It hit home, raw and excoriating. He thought he'd gone through it so carefully. It was not supposed to happen this way. _Him and Don, a touch of brotherly bonding, a few beers and some down time spent fishing._ Then he would tell him the truth about the tumour, before heading home once again. It was all so simple in theory, but the practise had turned into a nightmare. He closed his eyes and turned his head away from Alan. It was a way of seeking refuge from the pain.

Don had made promises up at the lake, and again during the course of their ordeal. Now it was his turn to make a few vows of his own – to undertake some very private guarantees.

He wouldn't leave Fresno until Don was awake. Not until he knew for sure his brother would make it.

And if it meant delaying his surgery, then so be it, it was a price he would pay.

_**TBC**_

**________________________________________________________________________________________________________**


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: -**_ _Many thanks to everyone still persevering with this story. _

_We're counting down to the last few chapters, now. _

_Lisa._

**_______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Eleven**_

Charlie sighed, and shook his head mutinously. He could be stubborn enough when it was warranted. He'd been expecting their opposition, but not a two-pronged, full-frontal assault. Closing his ears, he ran through some equations and let the graceful arc of numbers wash over him. It was easier like this if he blanked them both out, and took refuge in an old childhood trick.

Wednesday morning and his blood tests were settling down. Doctor Rosen had rescheduled him for next Monday. He was still on the IV steroids via a port in the back of his hand. The doctor had been to see him this morning and there was talk of a transfer on Saturday. He'd told them politely but firmly, that right now, he would far rather stay here.

There was just a little point which had been niggling at him. One he now planned to use to his advantage. About how Alan had found out about the tumour, when he most definitely hadn't given his consent. He understood that things must have been frantic and perhaps the hospital had made some sweeping assumptions. As it was, they'd probably done him a favour of sorts, but at the moment, they weren't to know that.

He'd explained to his doctor in no uncertain terms, that until now, his diagnosis had been private. Cue a swathe of apologies and red faces all around as they envisioned the legal axe coming down. From what he gathered, it was fairly straightforward. The Attending Physician had spoken to Alan. His father had gone along with everything they'd told him, acting throughout, as though wholly aware.

The thought made him weary.

_Why wasn't he surprised?_

Wasn't like he was supposed to have a private life.

As Don always wryly pointed out to him – _couldn't get anything past the old man._

Right now, though, he could turn this to his benefit, and bet the farm, he meant to make the most of it; as he'd described to the Hospital Administrator when she came to express formal regrets. He was going to stay here for as long as it took, until he knew for sure Don would wake up again, as he'd just explained fully to Amita and dad, while looking them both straight in the eye.

Amita shook her head at him incredulously. "Charlie, this is utter madness. You can't believe it's going to make any difference. The lack of cortisol must be clouding your judgement, because none of this makes any sense."

"It makes complete sense to me." He was tired of going over old arguments, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. "Would you mind passing my slippers? The nurse said she'll bring me a wheelchair. I need to go visit Don."

It was Alan's turn now. "You think Don would want this?"

He sighed. "_I want it._ The decision is mine and I've taken it. Please, don't try and talk me out of it. You'll only be wasting your breath."

"But, why?" Amita looked up at him imploringly, her eyes filling with tears of frustration. "You know Don would hate this on his conscience. He'd be the first one to say it was crazy."

"You don't understand." He put a hand to his brow, he wished they'd go, he was getting a headache. "What happened back there in the mountains – it was clear cut in a way – elemental. We both said things and made each other promises which on my part, I fully intend to keep. It might seem irrational and foolish, but I won't do this until Don is awake."

Her voice broke. "What does Doctor Rosen say?"

"I spoke with him first thing this morning. He'll keep my place on the list for next Monday, but is prepared to reschedule again."

It was hard to ignore the worry they felt or disregard the distress on their faces, but he remained resolute in his pronouncement. He hoped one day, they might understand. For the first time since his proper diagnosis, he was taking firm control of his condition. He would deal with the tumour on his terms instead of letting it dictate to him.

He'd been shell-shocked, struck silent with terror, so damned certain he was facing a death-sentence. A sense of fatalism seemed to possess him. _His life was over, he was going to die._ He was by no means living in cuckoo land and he might _still_ die if the tumour was malignant, but he was different now, after facing the Harrisons. He was no longer frightened of death.

He'd faced it – stared it straight in the eye – and know what?

_Surprise,_ he was strong enough.

All he needed right now was to pass on that strength. To apportion a little share to his brother. He was gambling on Don's sense of duty to halt his grim slide over the brink. Pain rose up inside him but he pushed it aside, knowing for now, he had to stay focused. Nonetheless, he was assaulted by memories, some of which he must have partially suppressed.

He recalled Don's face back at the lakeside and the look of calm acceptance in his eyes. Relinquishing his slender advantage over Kyle when he'd seen Jake was holding a gun. He would have known, no, make that _must _have known then, that the Harrison's would show him no mercy, and yet he'd given up any reasonable chance of freedom in order to save his – _Charlie's_ – life.

Charlie straightened, and didn't feel an ounce of regret, and besides, it all made perfect sense to him. He could turn this delay to Don's benefit. He had the whole thing all worked out. It was inherent in his brother to protect him and Charlie planned on milking that tendency. If Don knew he was waiting for him to wait up then he would surely fight hard for his life.

The room swayed and he gripped hold of the mattress, as a fierce wave of depression swept over him. He didn't care if he was acting irrationally. He just knew he had to do this for Don.

This was the first time they'd sanctioned him leaving his room, in-spite of all his impassioned pleadings. At long last, he was feeling less dizzy and could actually raise his head from the pillow. He'd had the IV removed first thing this morning and the nurses had brought him some breakfast, but food was the last thing he wanted. How the hell did they expect him to eat?

He was a patchwork quilt of bruises and scrapes, scoring his body like an angry reminder. Red raw scratches from branches and undergrowth which criss-crossed and ravaged his skin. His right knee had swollen like a puffy balloon where he'd twisted the cruciate ligaments. The doctors were considering yet more surgery to drain away the excess fluid from the joint.

None of it bothered him – not any more.

He felt remote and strangely disconnected.

All he wanted was to get out of here, to get up to the ICU.

"Charlie?" Alan spoke again haltingly, but this time with a hint of resignation. He stood up and held his arm out for Amita, and there was something in his face which understood. "I think I know why this is important to you. I'll go along with it, for now, much as it pains me. No one's trying to railroad you into this, but you must understand why we're upset. All this . . . after everything that's happened . . . dear God, I came so close to losing you. When I overheard them talk about the tumour, I remembered what your mother went through. It was wrong, son, and I recognise you're angry. You feel as though we invaded your privacy. I was worried you were trying to fight this alone and it's the reason I pretended I knew."

There it was, and it filled him with sorrow. The same set of words left unspoken. Had mom suspected the truth about her cancer, maybe even known for sure, but left things unsaid?

He looked up, eyes darkening with sadness, meeting Alan's with tacit agreement. "I know why, dad, it's pretty obvious, believe me. It still doesn't change the fact that you did it. I would have told you – _I was coming home to tell you,_ until the Harrison's got in the way. All I'm asking is a little respect from you both, and in light of things, I figure you owe me."

Alan nodded, his face lined with sudden shame. All of a sudden, he seemed immeasurably older. He straightened up a pair of weary shoulders and accepted his share of culpability. "You know, it feels like we're always apologising. Making excuses and saying sorry to each other. I just hope you know what you're doing, and please God, we won't regret this delay."

"_Try not to worry._" He did his best not to flinch at the words. As trite went, they were hollow and empty. "I'll have the surgery as soon as Don's awake. I know it sounds crazy illogical but I'd rather wait until I know he's okay."

"I hope you're right," Alan was sombre, his deep concern for both his sons evident. He'd been with Don for most of the morning and things were still looking quite grim. "Come on, Amita - " he silenced her protests, cutting short her next attempts at persuasion. "Let's you and I go take a quick look around Fresno. It's about time we escaped from eating hospital food, and I could do with a decent cup of coffee."

Reluctantly, she went, and he was glad to see her go. Too much anguish still made him feel guilty. With any luck, they'd be gone for a couple of hours, and he could spend time alone with Don. He knew Amita had wanted to argue some more, and right now, he didn't think he could handle it. There was only one valid hypothesis and he'd seen it hover on the tip of her tongue.

"_What if he doesn't make it?"_

Not something he could bear to contemplate.

As of now, he was living in the moment, and this moment was all about Don.

A quick knock at the door and it was David. Charlie bit back a flash of annoyance. He had to talk to the agent eventually, but he baulked at yet another interruption. If he was honest, it wasn't just the impatience, and he found he was dreading this moment. To rehash his ordeal in any detail and be forced to micro-analyse events. He put his hands together and clenched hold of them rigidly. It helped stop his fingers from trembling. He was falling, spiralling out of control, his destination the rain-sodden forest.

The trees towered over him threateningly. So surpassingly real, he could smell them. Thicket and undergrowth snagged at his limbs. He took a deep breath and held on tight.

David stood with that quizzical raised eyebrow of his. "Hey, Charlie, man, how are you doing?"

Charlie shrugged and was tempted to be honest. Anything to get David out of here. He wasn't sure if he was capable of doing this right now, while the memories thronged like ghosts in his head. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the bed, and the white cotton was suddenly dazzling. It wouldn't take much to get lost in those woods, to slide back into that dark world again.

If it were Don, he would want to get it over with. Do his duty while he remembered all the details. Make David's life as easy as possible by getting it all set down for the record.

He wasn't Don and he never could be. There were such fundamental differences between them. But back there, for quite some minutes in that clearing, he had behaved and felt essentially the same. For a short while _he_ had been the protector – assumed the mantle without even thinking. Neither an iota nor a shadow of doubt in his mind when he'd knelt and held the knife to Jake's throat.

_Would he have used it?_

The thought made him shiver.

Yet the answer was never in question.

As for the tumour, and the effects of the cortisol, he sighed and put a hand to his forehead. They were merely a convenient smokescreen for what he now knew to be the vital truth. He'd banked on not having to use the knife and hoped that Harrison might barter for his brother; gambling their lives on a sense of love and loyalty and the vain chance he might be proved wrong.

He would have killed Jake in order to save Don's life.

And afterwards, the guilt would have crippled him. Now the hormone imbalance was settling down, he was _Cheez Whiz Charlie_, again. The thought of taking a life filled him with horror – but it was nothing when compared to losing Don. A no-brainer in the end, and he would do it again if it came right down to the wire.

"The nurses said you're about to see Don. Is it okay if we hold off for a while?"

"I guess," he knew he had to get this over with. "So long as you push me upstairs afterwards."

David smiled at him. "Deal."

He went over it in meticulous detail, and big surprise, it didn't hurt as much as he'd envisaged. He didn't want to leave a single thing out or give the Harrison's so much as a small loophole. Voice wavering, he described the beating, and God help him, fought to keep things impersonal, analytically downloading the chain of events as it flashed like a film in his head.

"Was the bear dead?"

The thought came to him suddenly. Quite ridiculous, but he was concerned to hear the answer. He was surprised that it really mattered to him, the fate of one large, rogue bear.

David raised the ubiquitous eyebrow. "There was no sign of it when the rangers reached the lakeside, and the tracks led back into the forest. Apparently, he demolished the campsite and then finished off the rest of the beer."

"Not dead then."

David shot him another curious glance. "Just pretty drunk, from the sound of it. Once he was done with his one-bear, wrecking spree, he lit off on his own once again."

"Okay."

Charlie knew it was quite stupidly irrational but the thought of it cheered him immensely. At least Smokey had made to safety with nothing worse than the much-parodied sore head. It crossed his mind with a sense of detachment that Jake's condition hadn't even occurred to him. He was concerned about the fate of an animal when a man had been bleeding to death. Perhaps he hadn't changed as much as he'd originally thought. He felt constricted by a small knot of anger. After everything the Harrison's had done to them, there was a part of him which found it hard to care.

"And Jake?"

"He was pretty much gone when we got to you. Made it here, but died just after arrival. The medic's did all they could for him, but the blood loss was way too severe."

Charlie nodded. "Like Wayne – he died like his brother did. Both knowing Kyle had betrayed them. You know, David, it's kinda hard to imagine, having an older brother like that."

"Kyle won't be bothering anyone again, even though he denies most of the charges. Attempted murder of a federal officer – trust me, he's going down for life."

"Denies the charges?"

"Claims he and his brother didn't know who Don was and that they only intended to rob you. He's hoping to get away with a robbery assault and avoid the deliberate, premeditated charge."

Charlie was silent for awhile as he digested this. The whole thing sounded typical of Harrison. It was another reason why he had to get through this intact. To ensure the man was put away for life.

"He planned on torturing, and then executing both of us. The fact I was there was kind of convenient. I was just an added bonus, the extra icing on the cake. Yet another twisted way of hurting Don."

"Don't worry too much about it, Charlie. We got plenty enough to convict him. At least four officers – me included – who watched him point and pull the trigger of that gun."

He finished his statement in a sombre mood. Talking to David had taken it out of him, big-time. Thinking about Kyle Harrison scared him, and God help him, he wished the man dead. He guessed most people would call it intuition, but he was more inclined to sound supposition. A man like Harrison wouldn't go quietly. He wouldn't shrug and call it quits and then forget. Even if convicted and sentenced to life, his desire for revenge would rankle and grow stronger. Chances were, it was directed at the both of them now, like a coiled snake, always ready to strike.

Charlie shivered, he wasn't naïve anymore. There were ways and means of getting at someone. Maybe with money or a perhaps a called-in favour, the result would be the same in the end.

Could he go through the rest of his life like this – with one eye always looking over his shoulder?

And then, dear lord, he had a sudden reality check.

_It was probable Don already did._

* * *

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The ICU was only one floor up but he was more than glad of the wheelchair. One of the nurses insisted on pushing him, but David kept his word and walked alongside. Charlie was silent – filled with a strange trepidation – and way too deep in thought to make small talk. _Damned tumour,_ his head was aching and he felt nearer eighty than thirty, but right now, all he wanted was his brother. Just to see for himself Don was alive.

It was cool in the unit and unnaturally quiet. Every sound seemed loud and starkly amplified. Even the air seemed discreetly in-keeping. A hint of blue about the shadows and the light. He gripped tight hold of the arm-rests, long flingers clenching and flexing. The last two days had dragged past like an eternity, and at long last, he was actually here. In all honesty, the place was horribly unnerving. It felt strange and unutterably alien. Resonant with struggle and last ditch hopes beneath the sterile façade of calm.

He saw a woman waiting outside a cubicle, face pale as she watched through the glass. Robin, of course, he should have expected it, but nonetheless, he was filled with . . . _dear God,_ _resentment?_ He really didn't want anyone intruding; had hoped to have Don all to himself.

She turned as they approached, hair swinging down around her cheek, and Charlie was immediately guilt-stricken. It was obvious she'd just been crying, eyes shadowed with grief and fatigue. He felt a pang of alarm and half rose from the chair but a stab of pain in his knee almost crippled him, craning his neck to see around the cubicle doorway, but frustratingly, all his efforts were futile.

"Oh no, Charlie," she shook her head with quick discernment, "it's okay, they're running some tests."

_Some tests._ He exhaled in a sudden rush of relief as the hot flash of terror subsided. It was as much as he could do to keep thinking straight as the surge of panic died in his veins. It was the sight of her tears which had frightened him. She was usually so composed and pulled together. To see her here, weeping over his brother, his fragile poise had been shattered again. He didn't know her particularly well, this slender woman with whom Don was so enamoured, but observing her now, noting the fine lines of pain, it was obvious how close they'd become.

"Are you okay?"

Why did people keep asking him that when the answer was blatantly evident. Nonetheless, he nodded and forced a small smile. He just wished she would leave him alone. Her gaze lingered for a second, filled with uncertainty, and then flicked quickly up towards David.

"Come on, let's give Charlie some privacy. A little time alone with his brother. We've got plenty of paperwork to go over. I want to look at those statements again."

"Thank you."

He found he was absurdly grateful and taken slightly off guard by her perception. She looked at Don one last time through the glass, and his brief resentment died as fast as it had flared. There was anguish and real love and concern in that glance, a swift impression of intense protectiveness. He caught a glimpse of something fierce and almost primitive, like a tigress defending her young. It was encouraging and in a way oddly comforting to receive confirmation she cared.

Comforting, but wrong. It all felt so wrong. Yet another good example of a paradox. Don the protector in need of protection. A contradiction in terms and scarily off-beam.

He didn't really want to talk to the doctors right now, and was glad when they didn't waylay him. Robin seemed happy to bombard them with questions while David wheeled him up to Don's bed.

"You gonna be okay here for a little while, buddy?"

David's use of the nick-name took them both by surprise. It sliced through him, feeling achingly familiar. He took a second to recover his composure and then managed to incline his head. It was times like this he really missed his hair. It made him feel so exposed and damned naked. No curtain of curls to use as a shield and nothing to hide behind. He felt as though he'd been skinned, pared right down to the bone, brutally uncovered and opened up to anyone. He was see-through, as clear and transparent as glass, and each emotion was fair game and up for grabs.

"I'll be all right."

And he was sure he would be. As much as possible, in light of his surroundings. He sat up straight and braced his shoulders. He now knew he could endure a lot of pain. It was something he'd found out recently, during the course of his tortured flight through the forest. It was one of a few small grains of self-awareness he'd managed to store away from all of this.

_He understood himself a little better now._

David left and he never even heard him go – suddenly aware he was alone with his brother. His chest muscles were so tense, he realised, that he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

_**TBC**_

* * *

**____________________________________________________________________________________________________________**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: -** _For language_

**Author's Note: -** _Well, I'm so sorry I'm one day late. __After trying faithfully since yesterday afternoon, at last FFNet has allowed me to access my account, and actually get the latest chapter posted. _

_Thanks for your reviews and patience,_

_Lisa._

_**NB: -** Just wanted to clarify that when Charlie woke up in the hospital (Chapter 10) Amita told him he'd had a seizure while on board the helicopter which flew him and Don out of the mountains. Hence the need for the IV steroids to treat his adrenal crisis. Hope this clears up any confusion. _

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Twelve**_

Someone had been reading – he guessed it was Robin – unless dad had developed a sudden penchant for poetry. It looked like she'd left the book in a hurry, face down and open by the side of the bed. Charlie leaned awkwardly out of the chair and reached across for the well-thumbed volume. He didn't know all that much about Robert Frost other than the fact Don liked some of his verse.

He shut the book abruptly, and pushed it to one side, his body seized by a series of shivers. He could remember one poem in particular, a string of lines running around in his head. Something about the night – _being acquainted with the night _– all too valid, he couldn't bear to acknowledge it. The words were a little too applicable for comfort, especially now and most particularly in here.

Sighing, he rested his arms on the bed. He had waited two whole days to get this far, and however uncomfortable he felt in this room, he was not going to cut and run. The machines intruded on his visual his lines of defence with all their beeping and wiring and tubing, and in another world he might have even been interested in seeing how they worked – what they did.

_Yeah, maybe, in another, more kindly world._ This one was too stark and visceral. It was all too uncertain and overflowing with dark shadows, filled with fear and an absence of light. He raised his eyes for the first time and forced himself to look at his brother. Until now, he'd been avoiding the moment of truth; _maybe a way of preventing the pain. _

God, he'd known, he'd witnessed the beating and seen Don immediately afterwards. Despite it all, he flinched backwards in horror. He was poorly prepared for any of this. Don was pale and his lips were the colour of chalk, one side of his mouth dragged down by the intubation. The rest of him was a distortion, a grotesque mass of swelling and bruise.

"_Don."_

The name choked out of him, and then at last, and for the first time, he was crying – chest heaving with painful, dry shudders, as the final barrier cracked and broke down. He saw then, with a sudden outpouring of grief, he'd been existing in some alternative dimension. This – _this_ was the harsh reality and who in the hell was he kidding?

Don would wake up just to honour his promises?

_His brother was barely alive._

He clasped his arms around his body and rocked in the chair. He was terrified, utterly floundering. In grieving now for his brother, he felt he was grieving for his own lost life. They were linked – he wouldn't make it alone. Not after everything they'd been through together. He needed Don here to help him get through this . . . he felt his world crash in ruins around his ears.

In the end, he was alone, just like anyone else. It was down to him to deal with the tumour. Those around him might love and support him, but he could not be reliant on their strength. It was _his_ strength which was all important, his capacity for coping with adversity; and hadn't he sorely tested that ability and already proven himself?

It was unfair to off-load this burden on Don. The truth of it was painfully obvious. His brother was going to need every last ounce of spirit in order to heal and survive. It had all seemed so simple, so straightforward at first, but he was forced to revise all his thinking. He loved Don and he always had done, but now he realised they weren't joined at the hip. They were both entitled to privacy and the privilege to live their lives with some secrets.

Going to temple was a good illustration; he had no reason to be hurt Don hadn't told him. They both had certain rights as brothers which should in no way prevent them being close. Thinking about it, Charlie knew with hindsight, why Don had kept his religious forays so quiet. His own attitudes had always been pretty scathing and he'd made his opinions quite clear. He guessed the poetry was another example – it was good Robin knew that Don liked it, and there were no grounds for any feelings of jealousy or hurt because he'd shared something so intimate with her.

His brother was who he was – he should accept it by now – Don was private and emotionally reserved. He was not into group hugs or big expressive displays but it didn't mean he was incapable of love. Quite the opposite, in-fact, as Charlie knew only too well. Their ordeal in the mountains had proven it. Don had surrendered himself to the Harrison's and then stood up in front of the gun.

His brother had been ready to die for him.

As he'd been ready to die for his brother.

And God, if Don ever recovered from this, then just knowing should be more than enough.

His throat loosened, and the terrible tension was gone. He wept freely but the tears were cathartic. It was not only Don he was crying for and it was liberating to grieve for himself. He'd been struggling all alone for such a long time now, buried underneath a welter of anxieties. Too afraid to acknowledge his illness and pulled down by a burden of fear.

He could do this by himself and shoulder the load. For his loved ones, for dad and Amita. He would go ahead and reschedule his surgery – for all of them, _but mainly for Don._

Their relationship would never be perfect. They were too unalike, way too different, and he had to stop taking it personally when Don chose to keep things close to his chest. He sat forward and reached for his brother's hand; for a quick second, his resolve almost failed him. The fingers were so loose and flaccid they nearly slipped out of his grasp. Still shaking, he took a breath and held on tighter. The link was there and would never be broken. If Don died – if he didn't make it – then he would always have this moment to cherish.

It wasn't much but he held on for all he was worth.

A brief time he had Don all to himself.

He steeled himself and let his eyes rest on Don's face, and this time he looked beyond the bruises. Saw past the swelling and alien features, past the discoloured and misshapen flesh. The horror faded as his heart-rate steadied and then all he could see was his brother. Charlie sat there and stared for a very long time, and then he lifted Don's hand up to his lips.

"If you were awake, you wouldn't let me do this - " he laughed, brokenly, "I wouldn't even attempt it. I have to tell you, I love you, brother, and I have to believe you'll get well."

No answer, of course. _No response at all_. Just the soft click and whoosh of the machinery, but as he cradled the hand very gently, he could feel a faint pulse beat in Don's wrist. He turned it over and watched the small blood vessel tick, the sweep of veins a fine blue tracery. The covering skin was pale and curiously soft, far too fragile and almost transparent.

He couldn't help thinking Don would hate this. Any invasion of his personal space or privacy. He was going to be one hell of a patient when he finally _did_ decide to wake up.

_Except he wouldn't be, and that was the anomaly. _

He would be well-behaved and very cooperative. Oh, sure, he might try and do too much too soon, but on the whole, a model patient, in-fact. Don was stubborn, but he was quietly stubborn. He would just go off and be stubborn in private. Give the impression he was being acquiescent while doing everything _he _wanted to do.

It drove dad nuts – always had done – but right now, Charlie could really use some of that doggedness. He prayed hard Don was still in there fighting. That he was doing his level best to wake up.

"Can you hear me? I hope you can hear me, because I have a few things I'd really like to say to you. We need to talk about what happened by the lakeside – we did some pretty dumb stuff back there. You should have told me about what happened to you, being shot at is quite a big deal. As for me, I should have been more open, and know what, some of that's your fault. I think, subconsciously, I was trying to be like you, hiding the truth to protect those I love. It was wrong – _I was wrong_ - I can see that now. In the end, all it did was hurt them. I guess its okay to keep some secrets from each other, but not at the expense of our lives."

If Don could hear him, he gave no outward sign, and Charlie didn't really know what he'd been expecting. If this was a book or a movie, than his brother should be opening his eyes.

He sighed, and then smiled, determindedly, as though carrying on a light conversation. Quite amazed to hear his voice sounded normal while the tears dripped off the end of his face. "Hey, Don, you were right about dad. About us not keeping anything from him. He overheard the doctors talking about the tumour and pretended he already knew. How about that for duplicity, huh? Since then, I guess I've been kind of mean to him; a part of me really wanted to punish him . . . or if I'm honest, it wasn't so much about him . . . in the end, it was all about you."

_Nothing._ No movement from the man in the bed. No indication he was even alive. Just the soft gasp and hiss of the ventilator and the controlled rise and fall of his chest. Charlie faltered for a second – this was way too surreal and had a strange but subtle air of violation. For the first time in his life he could say what he liked, and Don had no right of reply.

All those occasions he had burned with resentment or hurt and had longed to give free rein to his feelings, all the chances and lost opportunities when he had yearned for a response from Don. Right now, he could vent, he could rant and rave, and his brother was a captive audience, pour out thirty years worth of grievances . . . but the same few words spun in his head.

"Please Don, _please, just wake up_."

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * *

There was a bear . . . he was running from a big black bear . . . losing ground as he crashed through the undergrowth. He could hear it marauding behind him as the branches whipped back in his face. His flight was futile, he knew enough wilderness lore, and there was a sense of inevitability about it. The beast was first going to catch and then devour him – no way on earth he could outrun a bear.

It was gaining now, almost upon him, sharp claws reaching out for his flesh, and too late, as he stumbled forwards, he felt a blast of hot breath on his neck.

He thrashed upwards with a sudden surge. No air – there was no air – and he was drowning. They were holding his head under the water, thrusting him down into the cold depths of the lake.

He pushed against them, fighting as hard as he could, lungs on fire as he struggled for oxygen, and eventually the iron grip on him loosened just when he thought that surely he was dead.

"Can you hear me?"

The voice was familiar, filtering down through the layers of consciousness, but he was tired and too confused now, to answer, and he hoped they would simply go away. _No chance._ He could sense them around him. The grey outlines of shadowy figures. Wondering briefly if perhaps they were angels or knowing his luck, perhaps the downstairs crew instead.

He sighed, or rather, he tried to. There was a flame-thrower down in his lungs again. Fire rippled through his body in a white heat of pain, he tried to move and lurched forwards in panic.

"Okay, Don, just take it slowly."

_Easier said than done. _

He lay completely still for an awfully long time, mind drifting and lungs still hurting, too terrified to breathe very deeply in case the scourging blaze re-ignited. After a while, it seemed to fall into a pattern and the process became slightly more agreeable. _Just keep inhaling through his nose, little short puffs of air . . . yeah, he could do this . . . he could put out the flames. _

"Come on, Don, you can do better than that. Deep breaths – let's help get these sats up. I know it hurts but you need to keep breathing."

_Just who in hell did they think they were kidding?_

The word_ 'hurts'_ was a gross understatement.

It didn't come close to describing the inferno which raged in his chest.

The first voice again – one he recognised. "Donnie? Can you hear me, Donnie?"

He knew he should probably answer but the effort it took was simply too great. For a while he lay there and drifted some more, vaguely aware of them moving around him. His body felt weightless and buoyant almost as though he was floating off the bed. _Some kind of drugs,_ he presumed_, must be pretty good drugs. _The pain in his chest was getting easier. Guess he could try now and do as they told him – he took a sharp breath and sucked in some air.

It hurt, but not so much as the first time. Nonetheless, he gave a groan, couldn't help it. Blindly, he reached out and gripped hold of the coverlet, in a vain attempt to deal with the pain.

"I've got you."

His fingers were prised away from the twisted sheet and somebody took hold of them gently. The hand was strong and achingly familiar, with a dry somewhat leathery palm.

"Pop?"

"About time you woke up," the tone was wry and relieved. It masked just the hint of a quaver. "I know I'm always saying you don't get nearly enough sleep, but did you really have to take me at my word?"

He gripped harder and held on as tight as he could. He felt safer now and incredibly comforted. Barely awake enough to register dad's feeble stab at a joke, and if that was so, then things must be bad. Casting his mind back, he tried to sort through the fog, but things were hazy and his memories were muddled; just vague impressions of cold and lying out in the rain and more bizarrely, a large black bear.

"What happened to me?" His throat was hideously sore and he spoke with a rasping whisper. "There was an arms raid down on the waterfront . . . but this . . . none of this feels right."

"The doctor said you might not remember at first. To be expected after a skull fracture, apparently. Try not to worry about it, my son, there'll be plenty of time for that later."

"A skull fracture, huh?" He wasn't all that surprised, kinda explained why his head hurt so much.

"Among other things - " Alan faltered, completely distraught, as a swathe of broken images assaulted him. It was hard to miss the sudden wavering anguish or the sound of devastation in his voice. "Actually, you have quite a long list of injuries."

He made a valiant effort and opened his eyes. He hated hearing dad's obvious misery. It was bad enough being the cause of such distress and knowing it was all down to him. It took a few seconds to focus and the room swung around him in triplicate. He blinked and then realised one eye was still closed, covered over by some kind of dressing pad.

"Think I just found another one."

"Yes, you did, it's a fractured eye-socket." Alan was carefully matter-of-fact. "Could have been worse though, you won't need any reconstruction work, and they say the eye itself will be just fine."

"That's good, right?" he was trying his best to keep things light, wasn't difficult to sense his father's fragile mood.

"It's _not _good, but know what? It could be a lot worse, and I'm sorry, please don't pay any mind to me. The last few days have been pretty horrible, but as of now, things have begun to look up."

Don frowned, and then regretted the movement, as it pulled on what must be more of his injuries. A nurse came in and re-adjusted some equipment and he realised he was in an ICU. He was attached to machinery and monitors by a plethora of mysterious tubes and wiring. The faint hissing sound was coming from an oxygen mask which he'd obviously pushed away from his nose.

"It's important to keep this one on, right now," the nurse shook her head with a slight smile as she replaced it. "We need to get these O2 sats a little higher before we let you break out of here."

"How long?" the thought suddenly occurred to him, it was obviously _too long,_ judging by dad's behaviour. God, how he wished he could concentrate better – could break down the walls in his head. "And just where the hell is _here?_"

"_Here_ is the Intensive Care Unit. At Saint Agnes Hospital, in Fresno. As for how long," Alan gave a tired sigh. "Feels like it's been a lifetime, or in real terms, exactly one week."

A whole week, he'd been unconscious for seven whole days, and the knowledge was both bewildering and scary. _And Fresno – well, damn, of all places, Fresno. _It would help some if he could rally his thoughts and remember the reason why.

He closed his eyes while the nurse ministered to him and did something with somewhere unmentionable, trying his level best to remain stoical when she checked out his various tubes. She asked him some simple questions and he answered them as well as he was able. He could have told her he was cognisant but extremely confused – and yeah, he'd had his share of head injuries before.

It was a little like unravelling a giant ball of string. Don blanked his mind and really forced himself to focus, but weirdly, and however implausible, he always ended up with the black bear. A glint of recall like a sliver of sunlight - there were trees and the damp scent of leaf-mould. There were grey skies draped like gauze across the mountain tops, a hint of autumn and the cold pelt of rain. He strained in search of the memories, but they evaded him, still hidden and elusive. Teasing around the bounds of his subliminal mind, like the vague recollection of a dream.

Forgetting for a moment, he took a quick breath, body tensing with stress and frustration. The flame thrower went into action again as his ribs caught and hitched with distress. Agony spread all the way through to his back and clamped like a vice around his torso, and then suddenly, he was back at the lakeside, as the truth first bloomed then spiked in his head. It was a little like falling asleep in reverse – like waking up into a nightmare. He was flooded by a torrent of remembrance and nearly overwhelmed by the pain.

Him and Charlie . . . they'd gone fishing, just the two of them, and then Charlie had came clean about the tumour. They were coming back home in the morning and after that, it had all gone to hell. At long last, the bewilderment started to clear and was replaced by some solid consistency. He began to put the pieces together again and work back to what had gone down at the lake.

"Kyle Harrison did this – he came after me."

Alan held his hand tightly. "It's okay, it's all over and done with. The FBI has him in custody. Charlie told us everything that happened. You don't have to go through any of this yet."

Charlie. _Oh God, Charlie._

More memories and it was all coming back to him now. The truth was shocking and left him hollow and shaken. With hindsight, it was nothing short of a miracle either one of them had made it out alive. Don squinted up at Alan uncertainly and wondered if Charlie really_ had_ told them everything. He didn't want to give away any secrets or let his crazy brother down at this late stage.

He hedged some of his bets. "Is Charlie okay? What happened at the end is kinda hazy. I remember a helicopter . . . and then Charlie . . . dear God, Charlie had a knife."

"Hush, Donnie, don't let it upset you." Alan shuddered. "I have nightmares just thinking about it. Harrison took a shot at him but you got in the way, and then apparently and quite wonderfully, the gun jammed. A stuck shell casing, according to David, but a miracle, as far as I'm concerned."

_Miracle. _

There was that word again. He lay quite still and grappled with the implications. It would be nice to talk things over with the rabbi, and try to put the whole experience into context. Right now, it was all a little too much. His head hurt and he was having trouble concentrating. The overriding matter which concerned him was whether Charlie had come clean to dad.

If what had happened by the lake had been some kind of trial, then his brother had passed the test with flying colours. There were a few minor issues in the obedience stakes, but what the hell, they had been lucky in the end.

_Or at least on a temporary basis. _

He didn't feel they were out of the woods just yet.

Not until he knew Charlie would be well again.

He must have dozed for a little while, because he awoke with quite a start a while later, annoyed with himself for drifting away, when there were still answers he needed to hear. He took a breath; cautiously, this time, more aware now of his limitations. It hurt, but not as badly as it had done before, and he gave a small grunt of relief.

"Hey, you?"

Not dad.

_Most definitely, not dad_.

His heart gave a swift leap of gladness. He turned his head on the pillow and smiled, filled with sudden happiness to see her there. "Hey, yourself."

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the bed before pressing her lips against his for a long while. He tasted love and the remnants of terror, black cherry lip gloss and the salt of her tears. She placed her head down beside him, and they stayed where they were, no words spoken for at least another minute. She needed the silence, he understood her by now, and was content enough to wait and hold her hand.

Don knew he had plenty to be sorry for and she had every damned right to be mad at him. He should have stayed at home after the shooting and not driven up to the lake. If he'd had half a grain of sense then he should have complied, should have listened to the doctor's advice. It was what any sensible person would have done, put his feet up and spent the weekend resting. He sighed, carefully, and moved his lips on her hair. How the hell could he begin to explain?

That deep down, he'd known Charlie had needed him, and he'd acted on some fraternal sixth sense?

Robin propped herself up and looked down at him, tracing the curve of his eyebrow with one fingertip. She studied his battered face for a moment or two, eyes still troubled and red-rimmed with anxiety. "God, I hope you know how much I'm pissed off with you, Eppes," her voice shook and she smiled at him tearfully. "Don't – and I'm really not kidding – don't _ever _do this again."

"It's not high on my list of priorities," he attempted to keep things vaguely humorous. "Robin, I'm really sorry. I hate that you went through all this."

Her breath hitched. "No, I'm sorry you did. I want to prosecute the ass off that bastard. Put him away for the rest of his miserable life so he can't ever hurt you again."

"He's alive, then?"

Somehow, he wasn't surprised. Men like Harrison had the luck of the devil, but the good fortune didn't run to his brother, and it wasn't the same for Jake. He listened while she told him the bones of the case, filling in all the gaps he'd missed out on. It wasn't until she got to the end that he heard what he wanted to hear.

Harrison's gun had jammed just like dad said. Charlie escaped with a few minor injuries. He'd suffered from mild hypothermia and had surgery for a problem with his knee.

"What?" he looked harder at Robin's face, there was something she wasn't telling him. Forgetting about the pain in his chest, he reached out and grasped hold of her hand. "Tell me?"

"He went into some kind of seizure as a result of the adrenal crisis. The stress exacerbated his condition with pretty much, near-fatal results. It's okay, they began the treatment in time, and managed to stabilise his condition. You only just missed him by a couple of hours; they flew him back to Los Angeles first thing."

Don closed his eyes and let his hand fall away. He felt shattered and suddenly exhausted. He remembered the vows, all the damned promises, he'd made by the side of the lake. He'd assured Charlie he would be there for him, that he would help shoulder some of the burden, but fate had decided against it, and now all those pledges were worthless.

He only hoped Charlie was strong enough, and that someday, his little brother might forgive him. He prayed then, there would be a _someday_, and that the heavens would grant them more time.

_**TBC**_

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**_Disclaimer:_ -** _For language_

_**A/N : -**_ _Once again, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. It really is heartily appreciated._

Lisa.

**_______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Thirteen**_

He gave the rear of the gown a quick modesty check and limped painfully across to the window. What the hell, he should be using his crutches, but he left them propped forlornly by the bed. They'd transferred him back to Los Angeles so the outlook was lively and familiar. Concrete and glass all around him, and West Hollywood sprawled out before his eyes. Okay, the view was pretty much as he'd expected, but thank the lord he had a glimpse of some greenery. His bruised heart lifted a little, it was a modest solace of sorts.

The room he was in was quietly luxurious but still very obviously medical. None of the artwork could detract from its purpose, or disguise the actual reason he was here. Right now, he really didn't want to think about that, it would intrude soon enough on his existence, so he deliberately turned his back on reality and continued to stare out through the glass.

It was a warm day without so much as a breath of wind and the leaves and the trees were stationary, boughs and limbs dividing into branches, jagged patterns brushing up against the sky.

It was funny how he'd become so aware of the trees – just another thing he usually took for granted – but since his time up in the Sierras, they'd become rather larger than life. Up there, it had all been so different and the trees dominated the landscape, providing shelter and some form of cover, and yes, even a sanctuary of sorts.

Charlie sighed and leaned his hands on the window ledge. It had been so different up in the mountains. Primitive but a damned sight more honest then this medical threat he now faced. It had been him, mostly alone against the elements, using his wits and a large dash of courage. He'd fought dirty because he'd been forced to, and in the end, it was how he'd survived.

In here, it was entirely dissimilar and he was completely at the mercy of his doctors. Any autonomy or self-determination, it was all taken out of his hands. Up there, it had been the murderous Harrison's, but now the dreaded cancer was his enemy. Darker, a whole lot more insidious, simply by virtue of being unknown.

Pressing his forehead against the glass he was overcome by a sudden sense of loneliness, but the feeling was merely transitory, and he was glad he'd sent Amita away. Once again, he knew he'd made her unhappy. She'd argued and wanted to stay with him, but he was not in any kind of mood for small talk, and in truth, he was happier alone.

_Damn, admitting it made him uneasy. _

He was as sure as he could be, he loved her. She was amazing and he'd be an idiot not to. It was just sometimes, he really needed the silence, the peace and quiet of having no one else around.

When he was with her, he had various expectations of himself. It was a role he always seemed to slide into; maybe a residual hangover from the early days when he was mentor and she was student. She'd seen him animated and lit up with energy, filled with vibrancy and a passion for teaching. She saw Charles Eppes, the mathematical genius, but he sometimes wondered what else she saw?

Unfair – he was probably being unfair – she was loyal and always telling him she cared. He was feeling depressed and just a little morose and taking his insecurities out on her.

Following his earlier, dramatic _volt face,_ he'd arrived yesterday, on Saturday evening; all fired up and filled with new purpose and a private sense of resolve. Once he'd made the decision, he'd known it was right; one of those revelatory certitudes. It was time to stand up and be counted – time to look this thing straight in the eye.

It was like having his very own sword of Damocles, hanging so low, he could feel his scalp prickle. He was sick to death of all the uncertainty. Time to cut the strings and let the damned thing fall.

And fall it would first thing in the morning.

_It was almost an anticlimax. _

All the torment and anguish of the last few weeks had somehow paled into insignificance. His head was still full of the mountains and the unpleasant aftermath of his ordeal. He was angry and consumed with a hatred, which festered and ate away at his marrow, as David's throwaway words about Harrison seemed to play on a loop in his brain. The ending should have been tidier, but there was no satisfactory conclusion, and he was honest enough to face up to his thoughts – _it would be better if Kyle Harrison was dead._

Subsequently, he'd spoken to Robin at length and she'd done an awful lot to reassure him. The likelihood of Harrison pleading robbery assault was not something she would contemplate happening. Charlie struck his fist against the window ledge and gave a brief sigh of frustration. His mind ran back over the course of events. It felt like the bastard was haunting him.

If he thought hard, he could see all the nuances, all the parts which went to make up the sum total. The man's brutality had been somehow intrinsic and distorted by a slew of inadequacies, plus a complete and utter absence of conscience which gave his cruelty a frightening free-rein. If you passed him in the street you wouldn't waste a second glance, and that was what made him so deadly. No rolling eyes or villainous demeanour, no word 'psycho-killer' stamped on his face.

There had been something – _Charlie furrowed his brow_ – something askew and just a shade left of centre. He could see it so clearly in retrospect. He'd heard the saying but never applied it before, but in Harrison, he'd seen _'the skull beneath the skin.'_

Just the thought of him re-gaining his freedom was horrifying and completely untenable. He knew enough of the man, had seen right through to his black soul. Harrison would come after them again.

He limped away from the window and reached for his cell. His anxiety levels had risen. Thinking about Harrison had sent them rocketing skyward - time to call dad and ask after Don. He looked down at the phone for a moment, almost too apprehensive to use it, mind racing through some crazy scenarios as he considered the device in his hand.

When he'd last seen Don yesterday morning, at long last, there were some signs of recovery. There had been talk of weaning him off the ventilator and his oxygen sats had improved. Charlie sighed, since then, events had overtaken him, and it had all gone whizzing by in a flurry. What with the transfer and his subsequent exhaustion he simply hadn't had the chance to catch-up.

Might as well bite the bullet, there was no point in delaying the moment. He flipped it open and was about to press speed dial when someone knocked at his door.

"Dad?"

He looked up swiftly in panic and then went into sudden freefall. Everything spiralled and the room spun around him, as the bottom fell out of his world. Dad was here – and that could only mean one thing. He would never leave while Don was so ill. Charlie had refused point blank to let him even consider it. In the scheme of things, it was a total no-brainer. His brother's needs were far greater than his.

_Oh God, Don was dead. _

The cell phone slipped from his hand and bounced of the edge of the locker. Automatically, he reached out to catch it, lost his balance and almost fell to the floor.

"Charlie, no," Alan caught him before he completely collapsed and steered him safely to the side of the bed. "It's okay, lean on me, I've got you, and shouldn't you be using your crutches?"

Charlie found he was shaking as he held onto his father like a lifeline. He leaned back against the bank of pillows and there was only one thought in his head. "Dad, tell me, what are you doing here? Please tell me, dad . . . is Don . . ."

He was trying to push back the panic, breathing hard and fighting to brace himself. He'd walked away, given his own needs priority, and now his brother was dead.

"God, no, Charlie. I'm sorry, I should have thought - " Alan paused and then recoiled in horror as he realised what Charlie was saying. "Thought I'd give you the good news in person, my son. It's okay, Donnie's awake."

"He woke up?"

"Yesterday evening. The doctors took him off the ventilator. I rang through, and tried to talk to you, but they said you were still exhausted from the transfer."

"How is he?"

"He's weak and still in a great deal of pain, not that he'd ever admit to it, but the doctor's were optimistic enough to remove him from the critical list. It's going to take a while for all those fractures to heal, and he has a pretty bad dose of pneumonia, but we both know Donnie, he'll fight this. He's going to be all right, in the end." Alan came and sat down in the chair by the bed, his face relaxing for the first time in days. "You made the right decision, Charlie. As soon as your brother was lucid enough, it was you he was worried about."

Charlie closed his eyes as Alan's words eventually sank in. Don was okay, his big brother would make it. There had been a time back there in the mountains when he had seriously doubted the prospect. And again, in the ICU in Fresno, seeing Don hooked up to all that machinery, after listening to the litany of injuries, it was a miracle he'd actually survived.

Relief left him weak and exhausted again, muscles aching and drained of all energy. He was filled with a deep feeling of gratitude and a sudden absurd urge to cry. At last he could truly articulate the thought, he'd been so afraid his brother would leave him. It didn't matter he couldn't be here physically. Don had kept his word in the end.

"Why are you here, dad, you should have stayed in Fresno."

"Robin's with Don and she's not going anywhere. You know, she's one, formidable lady. And when it comes down to the hand-holding stakes, I think he prefers her to me. Besides, he insisted I be here with you; apparently, he made you some kind of promise. It was making him too upset and restless to think of you down here without family."

Charlie didn't know whether to laugh or cry. As gestures went, it was so typical of his brother. Barely awake for a meagre five minutes before the protective gene kicked in again.

"And anyway," Alan looked at him, shrewdly. "As you may recall, I actually have_ two _sons. I figured when it came down to it, you might need a little hand-holding yourself."

"Amita . . ."

"_Amita_ called me, she was worried about you. Said you told her, in-fact, you virtually insisted, she leave you to have your surgery alone."

"It's no big deal, she shouldn't have bothered you. It was my choice, and I'm okay, _really._ There's so much I still have to think about – some future options I might need to consider."

Alan spread his hands and looked a little sheepish. "I'm guessing you're probably still angry with us, and I understand, Charlie, I do, but Amita had nothing to do with it. I presupposed she already knew about the tumour."

Charlie lent forward and pinched the bridge of his nose. As gestures went, it was extraordinarily Don-like. He still harboured a tiny seed of resentment over the way dad had found out the truth. He knew why, of course, and he supposed in the long run, there was no point getting worked up about it. However irritating the invasion of privacy, it had been done with the best of intent.

He sighed. "I'm not angry with either one of you, but I am just a little discomfited. There are some things, _especially medical records,_ which should remain sacrosanct, even from you and Amita. When I first found out about the tumour, it was as though I'd fallen head-first down the rabbit hole. I needed time to get to grips with all the variables, to assimilate the facts inside my head."

"I understand, or at least, I think I do."

"Do you really, dad?" Charlie smiled, disbelievingly. "I don't think you can. You and me, in many ways, we're so different. You're so expansive, so very Jewish Poppa. You always take everything to committee, lay it open and worry it to death."

"And you don't?"

"Of course, with things I feel in control of, when I have some sort of say in the outcome. It's okay, if I'm still in my comfort zone, and if my chosen parameters stay the same." He looked up in some desperation, thinking back to his diagnosis. It was hard to put it into perspective, to rationalise and explain it to dad. "Those same parameters, I'm the one who should be moving them, based on reason and logical thinking, but the tumour . . . it's so arbitrary and random. Feels like I'm living at some chance whim of fate. I feel as though my body's been invaded, taken over by another type of entity. Having the tumour is like stepping into a vacuum or being sucked into a giant black hole."

"Oh, Charlie," Alan's voice became husky. "You know, I read an article the other day, and I thought at the time, how much you'd hate it. About how science only asks the right questions when it knows for sure there will be answers – thereby rejecting the true metaphysical and consigning it to crackpot superstition. It even mentioned how our earth remained nice and flat until Newton's apple fell from the tree."

"Let me guess, is this about Don?"

"Partially, it _did_ talk about religion, and how we probably shouldn't reject a higher consciousness, but I don't want to get into a debate about that, and mostly, it made me think about you. Made me wonder what it must be like, to reach beyond the commonplace and ordinary. In a way, it made me glad to be average, to be safe in the everyday and mundane. Your mind is a uniquely wonderful thing, so much more than just synapses and neurones, but on the other hand, it must be terrifying sometimes, to comprehend the things which most of us can't see."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"Don't be so cynical. I think sometimes, it truly can be."

"But not for me, dad, and I guess that's the problem. I've caught a glimpse of the end of the rainbow. How can I ever truly survive if all I can see is the sky?"

"You don't know it's going to get to that point. It's important to stay a little optimistic. I know it's easy to look on the black side and I think that I'm partly to blame. When your mother died, it was devastating, and for a while there, I found it hard to keep functioning. Looking back, I was selfish, so wrapped up in my grief; I wasn't there for either one of you boys."

"But Don was."

Alan blinked. "Yes, thankfully, Donnie was, and I suppose that's I'm trying to tell you. Your brother was there to pick up the pieces. During those dark days, he kept us both going. In my own way, I was as lost as you were. I just couldn't see it at the time."

Suddenly, Charlie was tired, just so very tired. His eyes were heavy and his head was aching. Thinking of mom wasn't really helping too much and he did not want to go down this route. Maybe his viewpoint _had_ been coloured by the past and the way they'd all reacted to mom's cancer, but it was hard to respond any differently when his experience was based upon fact. His recollections were distorted by emotional pain and too clouded by memories of her suffering. In the scheme of things, it was hardly surprising his diagnosis had knocked him for six.

It was why he had clung on so hard to Don, and why he'd been so driven to tell him. Despite all his psychological scarring, he'd remembered his brother's strength at the time.

If anyone could help him, then Don could.

It had all seemed so glaringly simple.

He shook his head with the wisdom of hindsight.

He was tough enough to do this alone.

"I get it, dad, I see what you're saying. You think I'm strong enough to get through this. I came to the same conclusion. I don't need to off-load this on Don."

"Not off-load, just share, and not _just_ with Don. With all of us, Charlie, who love you. And this time, _I'm_ going to make you a promise. To do everything I possibly can."

He felt a weight roll away from his shoulders and the feeling was unexpected and heady. He could guess what dad's sincerity had cost him and was humbled by such unexpected candour. It wasn't easy to look so deeply inside yourself, to drag out and examine your motives. Especially, when the past was still painful and could open up a fresh can of worms.

The damned tumour had not gone away yet and his problems could be about to get worse. But thank God, or science, or whatever was out there, at long last, it was all out in the open. He felt better than he had done for a long time. At long last, he could attempt to be himself again. Charlie felt almost weak with relief.

"I have something here," dad reached down for his bag. "It's from your brother, he insisted I get it. Luckily, I found a gift shop in Fresno which sold this kind of thing."

_This kind of thing_ was a little black bear. His fake fur incredibly silky. Charlie held him close for a second or two, a tremulous smile on his face. Trust Don – this gesture truly smacked of him. It wasn't overly sentimental or too gushy, just a corny little joke between two brothers with a wealth of meaning hidden behind the gag.

Alan's voice was carefully non-committal – a combination of wry and soft. "Even though he can't be here in person, at least you have your very own protector. Apparently, the bear's going to look out for you, or at least, that's what Don said."

"He did, huh?" Charlie was almost too choked to speak. He placed the bear on the pillow beside him. One of its little glass eyes seemed to wink at him, but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Don gripped the metal sides of the bed and hunched forwards, white-faced with misery. He was wracked with yet another bout of coughing, lungs tight and constricted with phlegm. All the hacking was taking its toll on him, wreaking havoc with his damaged ribcage, while the infection left him feeling ill and exhausted, short of breath and gasping for air.

Every time he coughed, his broken ribs would catch fire, but if he didn't, then he ended up wheezing. It was a toss-up between two definite evils and he wasn't sure which one was worse. The painkillers helped, and he was glad of them. The downside was they made everything hazy. He spent most of the time doped up to the eyeballs and drifting on a dull cloud of pain.

It was a lot better than the alternative. His memory had filled in the blanks now. At first, it had come back in dribs and drabs, but eventually, he remembered it all. He wasn't like Charlie, he believed in fate, or at least, in inevitability. When they'd pulled into the gas station in Wishon – what were the odds on meeting Harrison there?

He gripped the bed harder in aggravation. It was tricky getting news in that area. Everyone was remarkably cagey, all dancing around him on tiptoes, as though he was some fractious child. David had mentioned the robbery assault plea but assured him there was no chance of it succeeding. They still hadn't taken his statement. Apparently, he wasn't well enough yet.

There was nothing neat and tidy about any of this. All the endings had been left frayed and ragged. He had a strong sense of unfinished business and a part of him wished that Harrison had died. He still wondered at the feeling of conflict. In the end, he was a goddamned hypocrite. He was relieved it wasn't him or Charlie, but still upset that no one else had pulled the trigger.

Those last moments were still muddy and slightly confused and he only really knew what they'd told him. Most of all, he remembered Charlie, oh, and make that a fucking huge knife. When it came down to bluff and counter-bluff, Charlie hadn't stood a hope in hell against Harrison. In the end, the man was totally selfish, and hadn't cared a damn about his brother's life. On the other hand, they'd both had far too much to lose, and Harrison, cunning bastard, had known it.

Don gave a wry smile as he thought over events. He still couldn't quite come to terms with it. _Charlie, brave, preposterous Charlie_; in the end, he had saved the day. His action, while ultimately hopeless, had bought them some precious minutes. Given Sinclair a chance to locate them and arrive in the nick of time.

He leaned back against the pillows. God, his head hurt. They were still monitoring him for intracranial pressure. His brain was swollen from the concussion and there was a small chance it could build up again. All the coughing didn't help, he was sure of it. Each bout left him worn out and shaking. Right now, there was no let-up to his wretchedness, no natural reprieve in sight.

Logic told him he would eventually recover. He just had to ride out the interim. The wearisome and pain-ridden interim which looked all set to go the long haul.

He closed his eyes against a rush of emotion. He was feeling unaccountably sorry for himself. A combination of hurting and frustration and the thought of all the long weeks ahead. It wasn't him – or not so much of it – as it was all about the bad timing. He was stuck here in a bed, up in Fresno, while Charlie needed him like never before.

Back there, in the woods, he'd known something was wrong, very drastically different about his brother, but they'd been striving for their very existence and he had plenty of problems of his own. There had been no opportunity for a little tete a tete, no chance to discuss the finer details. It had boiled down to basic survival and a fundamental fight to stay alive.

Except in Charlie's case, it had been twofold. He'd been fighting against two separate enemies, the Harrison boys out in the open and the tumour inside his own head. Don sighed, as he considered the outcome. It was only to be expected. They might have defeated the Harrison's but the tumour had won in the end.

He frowned as he recalled what they'd told him, about the seizures and adrenal crisis. While he'd been lying here, completely out of it all, his little brother had been going through the mill. He was pretty good at keeping secrets, but in the end, it had been unnecessary, and when dad came to see him a second time, he'd seen the truth written on his face.

_Thank God, it was out in the open. _

He kept his mouth shut when he heard of dad's methods. He would store that particular bad taste away and save it for another time. If only he'd woken up earlier, but as usual, his timing was lousy. Charlie was halfway back to Los Angeles when he eventually opened his eyes.

It had taken a lot of effort to get rid of dad, but it was obvious he was worried about Charlie. In the end, Don had stretched things a little, acted brighter than he actually felt. It was worth it in spades for his own peace of mind. He couldn't bear the thought of Charlie alone down there. He knew dad was reluctant to leave him, but it had the desired effect.

Robin came in with her cell phone. "There's someone here you might want to talk to."

"Thanks," he took it, and then raised his good eyebrow at her flagrant disregard of the rules. She winked at him and then turned on her heel before heading back out of the cubicle. Much as he loved her company, he was appreciative she'd left him alone.

"Hey, Don," it came as no real surprise when the voice on the other end was Charlie's. "I was going to say sorry I missed you. On the other hand, it wasn't really my fault. It's about time you eventually woke up."

"Nice," Don couldn't help smiling. The relief he felt was almost overwhelming. Charlie seemed a little huskier than normal, but otherwise, he sounded okay. "Good to speak to you, too, bro."

"I see you managed to get rid of dad. Nice going, that must have taken some persuasion. What – you wanted some alone time with Robin, so you decided to foist him on me?"

"Hey, you know how it is - " Don was forced to break off, overtaken by a sudden fit of coughing. He held on until the worse of it was over, and then picked up the cell phone again. "Sorry, Charlie, damned lungs, I can't help it. You're just gonna have to bear with me."

"Talking of bears," Charlie was making an obvious effort to be brave. The coughing jag had clearly shaken him. "I'm looking at a friend of yours right now. He came in with dad a little earlier. Smokey sends his regards."

"He causes any trouble, just give him some beer. They tell me he'll do anything to get his paws on it."

"Okay, Don, I'll _bear_ that in mind."

"You do that," Don smiled, softly. "And while you're at it, remember this. I may not be there in person, but I'm with you, Charlie, _me and Smokey,_ all the way."

_**TBC**_

**__________________________________________________________________________________________________________**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: -** _for language_

**A/N: -** _Big thanks again to everyone reading and reviewing this story._

_Lisa_**.**

**________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Part Fourteen**_

Charlie let Amita fuss him a little as the nurses helped him into the wheelchair. There was still a hint of strain left between them and he realised he had some ground to make up. She was quieter than usual and thinner, her dark eyes shadowed and somewhat guarded. Charlie acknowledged he was behaving unfairly and the last few weeks had taken their toll.

She stood back and examined him critically with a tiny shake of her head. Obviously, the conclusion wasn't favourable and he guessed he looked as awful as he felt. He found himself wishing she would go again. Her close scrutiny made him suddenly self-conscious. His face remained puffy and swollen with two panda black and blue eyes.

"Are you sure you're really up to this?"

The hurt in her voice bled through the concern and he felt guilty just at the sound of it. He reached for her hand, but they didn't quite connect, as she pulled her fingers quickly away.

"Yes, I'm sure, Amita, please try not to worry. It's only going to be for a little while, and Doctor Rosen says it's okay."

"If you say so," she nodded, abruptly. "I'm meeting up with your dad and Larry, and they've promised to buy me a coffee. Or I rather suspect your dad has. I can't see Larry footing the bill."

Charlie laughed, but searched her face anxiously. "I hope you can comprehend why I'm doing this, I mean, aside from seeing Don again? I promise I'm not trying to shut you out or exclude you from a part of my life. After everything that happened back there at the lake – God, I wish I could explain it more succinctly. It was terrible and yet revelatory, like some kind of rite of passage. Don gave me strength, he was there for me, and I have to share this moment with him."

"I know that you want your brother, and I can see why, under the circumstances. But knowing _why_ doesn't make this any easier. I just wish you wanted me."

He needed her to understand this. "I know none of this has been easy, and I recognise I'm asking a lot of you, but I _always_ want you, Amita, and in your heart, I hope you know that's true?"

"Oh, Charlie," her voice wobbled slightly. "Ask me again when all this is over. These last weeks have been a nightmare and I'm not sure I'm ready just yet. I love you – and you know I'll be here for you, but that doesn't change the fact you should have told me. I didn't think we kept secrets and it hurts to know I made a mistake."

"I'm sorry."

The words sounded painfully inadequate. He only hoped she knew how much he meant them. All of his well-intentioned efforts to protect her had only caused more hurt in the end. Furthermore, since waking up in the hospital he knew he'd been reserved and introspective, going over and analysing the play of events again and again in his head.

In a way it was a form of therapy. All the self-questioning seemed to help and calm him. It was the only means of making any sense of it all, of coming to terms with his distress.

This was all well and good from his own point of view, but not great if you were dad or Amita. He knew his withdrawal had caused some concern and hurt them all over again. He scrubbed his hand over his forehead, for a moment forgetting the bruising, and then wincing at the physical contact as he pressed on the tender flesh.

He'd undergone the procedure five days ago, resigned at last to having the surgery. Doctor Rosen had removed the tumour and sent the damned thing off to the lab. It was all as the neurologist had promised him – the process was quick and innovatory, microsurgery with the use of an endoscope, and a triumph of modern technique. No need for incisions or visible wounds, _the Frankenstein image still haunted him;_ no shaved heads or lines of sutures, and no scalpels slicing into his brain. Since then, he'd been quietly determined and his recovery had been quick and uneventful. He'd been docile and done everything they'd told him while he focused on getting mobile again.

The main problem was an omnipresent headache which was grinding and persistent in tenacity. His face ached, especially around his sinuses and it felt as though he'd been punched on the nose. Other than this, he was doing okay, and there was no evidence he'd even had major surgery, all apart from some spectacular bruising which had blossomed like a rose across his face. He raised his hand and touched his nose gingerly, gently pressing on the swollen pads of tissue. Strange, but he found it profoundly upsetting, in-light of his recent ordeal.

When he looked in the mirror, he was reminded of Don. Hard not to be, under the circumstances. Both sets of bruises had been deliberately inflicted but with a very different endgame in sight. The Harrison's had intended to maim and destroy, to mete out as much damage as possible, and the fact they had so nearly succeeded still hit hard and far too close to home.

They'd spoken to each other everyday on the phone, and it had helped him more than any analgesia. Hearing Don kept him centred and grounded, made it easier to deal with the discomfort. The conversations had been short by necessity – Don was still pretty sick - didn't have to be a genius to hear that. He would break off to cough far too often, his voice straining as he laboured for breath.

Funny – they never touched on what had happened, just kept it cheerful and fairly light-hearted, and although they discussed Charlie's surgery, neither one of them referred to the lake. Robin kept him a little bit more up to date, in the few minutes which followed every conversation, and he was appreciative of her direct honesty and the way she simply gave it to him straight. If he was truthful, some of the old fears still dogged him, and the phone calls made him feel little guilty. He was grateful for the lifeline they provided, but not at the cost of Don's health.

The news from Fresno was tempered with caution and Robin didn't pull any punches. The skull fracture appeared to be healing and there was no evidence of any further brain swelling. Don was awake and that was a very good thing, but the bout of pneumonia had been bad. Purulent coughing plus fractured ribs equalled a very large sum of pain.

Not that Don ever mentioned it.

Charlie sighed, he really should know better. Just because they'd both been to hell and back, didn't mean things were going to change. A part of him wanted to talk this one out – to sit down and totally dissect it – but he was sufficiently wise to respect his brother's need for silence; _God, he knew Don well enough by now. _

Don would talk if and when _he _decided. There was not much point trying to press him. He buried it all so deep beneath the layers, there was a good chance he might never talk at all.

In the past, this had frustrated the hell out of him, and he'd agonised over Don's seeming abstruseness. There'd been times when he'd genuinely wondered if his elder brother actually had feelings.

_Detached_ was the word and it filled him with shame, especially when he looked across at Smokey. There was so much warmth and understanding in that gesture. In the gift of a small stuffed bear.

He realised now it was a coping mechanism. His brother couldn't give into the luxury of falling apart at the seams. Don pulled it together and was forced to be tough for the very simple sake of his sanity. He dealt with the bad and the ugly and could not afford to let it take him down.

On the surface they were both so different, but wanted desperately to meet in the middle. His brother wasn't merely some problem whom he could solve with a simple equation.

If he was, it would make life much easier.

Charlie was honest enough to admit it.

And while he was still on the subject . . . he sighed again and looked at Amita. He didn't know how to appease her right now. How to soothe or alleviate her hurting. He wondered a little at his selfishness and knew he was probably wrong to shut her out. From his own point of view, it made complete sense and the explanation was perfectly straightforward. His world had become a capsule, tightly surrounded and enclosed from the outside. It was small and incredibly focused with very little room for anything else.

"I'm sorry," he tried the two words again. They didn't sound any better than the first time. "I really was trying to protect you, but in retrospect, I made a grave mistake."

She looked at him sadly. "Yes, you did, and I'm trying hard to understand why. I feel the same way about your histology results, Charlie, I get it that you made Don a promise, but it feels like you're shutting me out again. I thought I was a part of your life."

"You are – or at least, I hope you are," he was weary of the need to reassure her. "All of this – it's been so hard to come to terms with, please believe me, you've done nothing wrong."

She paused for a second, her hand on the door, looking back at him over her shoulder. "You know what, Charlie, in all of this mess, _that's_ the one thing I'm actually sure of," and then some of her bravado faltered. "Good luck with your results."

He called after her. "Wait, Amita - "

It was too late, she had gone.

All of a sudden, he was assailed by a slew of doubts. The abruptness of her exit had shaken him. His eyes flickered over to his cell phone and he was tempted to call her back.

_Was he doing the right thing? _

He no longer knew.

It had all seemed so principled in theory; he'd followed the circumference full circle and ended up at the beginning again. For now, he was alone in the room, and glad of the few minutes of silence. The solitude offered a spell of respite and gave him a brief time to think.

Don had transferred from Fresno this morning and been moved into a room at the same hospital. At long last, he'd been passed fit enough to travel, although he was still far from well. Charlie looked up at the clock on the wall. _It was also sink or swim day._ The single day on which everything counted and he got his histology results.

These final minutes . . . these precious few seconds . . . might be the last time he was free of the cancer. He could hardly remember the feeling. It seemed such a long time ago. The shadow leaned down and surrounded him, wrapped him up in a pall of dead ashes, and for a moment the darkness edged closer and threatened to engulf him again. He hovered briefly for a perilous instant or two, mind trembling on the brink of surrender. It would be easy to succumb to temptation, to drift off into its deadly embrace.

He wrapped his fingers tightly around the arms of the chair, taking a breath as he gripped even harder. Whatever happened now, he was stronger. The shadow dimmed and then faded away.

A tap on the door and the nurse came back in. "I just spoke to Doctor Rosen. He asked me to pass on a message and tell you he has your results. Professor Eppes, are you still okay with this?" She paused and waited for his affirmation. "Then we'd better not delay any longer. He's on his way up to your brother's room, now."

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Don leaned back with a sigh of relief and smiled reassuringly at Robin. The whole casual thing might have worked a little better, if he hadn't just hacked up half a lung. By now, he sort of had it covered – well, kinda - or at least he had it worked out in principle. It didn't hurt quite so much if he held onto his ribs and coughed genteelly from the back of his throat.

This was all very reasonable in theory, but not all that good in reality, and in order to overcome the pneumonia, he was supposed to cough from the base of his lungs.

Try telling that to his ribcage.

It was a whole different ball-game entirely.

The whole coughing from the base of his lungs thing – not such a terrific idea.

He opened his eyes with a sudden jerk and realised he'd been drifting, straightening up with a groan of discomfort, in order to stop it happening again. Robin gave him an old-fashioned look, but bit her lip and refrained from making any comment, reaching over for an extra pillow and tucking it in firmly behind him. Her hand lingered between his shoulder-blades, sliding in through the half-open gown, and the feel of her flesh was warm against his, as she began to rub in lazy soothing circles.

"Um, pretty good, maybe a bit lower down," he arched backwards into her touch, and a glinting smile crinkled his good eye. "Yeah, that's it, feels a lot better. Know what would really be the icing on the cake? If you moved round a little more to the front."

She leaned closer and whispered into his ear. "You know, Eppes, you don't fool me for a minute. A brave attempt, but all talk and no substance." She trailed her fingers softly to the base of his spine, leaving a path of little goose bumps behind. "Right now, I'm happy to settle for this. Ask me again in a few weeks time."

Her hair brushed his cheek and he chanced a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her perfume. She was jasmine, white flowers and moonlight, a subtle hint of slightly flushed female skin.

"Better believe it," he cupped her face tenderly. "Worse thing about this is I miss you. Miss waking up without any covers on and hearing you do that cute little snort thing."

"Hey," she mock-cuffed him gently. "I do _not_ do a cute little snort thing."

"Yeah, you do," he leaned forward and kissed her, "just like you steal all the top sheet."

She slid her hand up his back and they were quiet for some time, as she reached around and grasped hold of his fingers. Her grip strengthened on his, until her knuckles turned white and he was aware of a sudden sea-change. She tried to pull away, but he held on for dear life, just as equally determined not to let her, and shattered ribs withstanding, he turned her into his arms and held her as tight as he could.

The next step was completely inevitable, and in a way, he'd been waiting for this moment. She was crying – _dear God, she was crying_ – body shaking with each muffled sob.

"It's okay," he whispered, softly, smoothing her hair and feeling her shiver with anguish. There was salt and the wetness of tears on his lips as she buried her face in his neck.

"No," she mumbled, half-incoherently. "No, Don, _really,_ it isn't."

He felt a quick stab of fear, what the hell could he say?

No snappy answer to make her feel better.

Her distress hurt him more than the coughing had done. Was there any way of making this right?

She looked up at him, eyes bright with crying. "This thing we have, this time, it feels special. Like something precious and I don't want to lose it. It's taken us a long time to get to this point and that bastard nearly stole it away."

"Yeah, he tried but he didn't succeed." He pulled her close and dropped a kiss on her forehead. The sheer intensity of her short speech had shaken him; made him want to respond in kind. "It _is_ precious and we're not going to lose it. You know, I'll always do my damnedest to come home to you, Robin. I don't want you to go through this again."

She pressed a hand against her chest and pulled away from him, a shaky smile hovering on her lips. "Careful, Eppes, that almost sounded like commitment."

"I hope so," he held her eyes steadily. "Because I kinda think that's what it is."

"It is," she touched his bruised face gently. "This time, I really think it is."

Something inside him gave way in relief and the grip of fear suddenly released him. He was aware he felt a little unsteady and not just through lack of oxygen or pain. She'd been such a rock throughout all of this – so calm and straightforward and funny. When he needed some privacy she left him alone and she read all his moods like a book. It was different, he realised, this time around, and needing her was nothing to be scared of. The thought of losing her again was untenable. She was both spark and balm to his soul.

His breath hitched. "I was afraid you might hightail it out of here. I know none of this has been easy. I've seen it happen to some other guys I've worked with. Guess I couldn't really blame you if you did."

She stilled and then nodded slowly. "I can't say it didn't occur to me, this whole thing has been pretty horrible, and a year ago, I probably would have done. Would have chickened out and called it a day."

"What changed?"

"We've changed, or more accurately, _I've changed_. I can't imagine my life without you. Walking out wouldn't alter anything, and I'd still be losing you, either way."

"You know, it's gonna stay like this for awhile, until the day I finally take that desk-job. There'll always be an element of risk involved, I can't offer any guarantees."

"There aren't any, and we both know that. Just some hope, a little faith in the future. I hate to say it, Eppes, but you're stuck with me. I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon."

"I like that," he leaned forward and kissed her again, "in fact, it suits me just fine."

His throat tightened and he gave a groan of dismay, a whole ten minutes without any coughing. It was too much to hope for any more of a respite, he'd been lucky enough, as things stood. Five minutes later and he was feeling exhausted. Ribs on fire and screaming for morphine. Both physically and mentally and emotionally, it had been one hell of a day.

He'd been transferred back from Fresno this morning after some pretty relentless persuasion. They had finally pronounced him fit enough to travel after much reluctant shaking of heads. He wasn't about to admit it, but the short flight itself had been torture, and for most of the time, he'd been out of it, doped right up to the eyeballs on meds.

Even now, the one thing which had driven him was an overwhelming need to get to Charlie. They might have spoken on a daily basis but a phone call was not the same thing. To give him credit, Charlie sounded really chipper, but Don was wise enough by now to see right through it. There was something, just a small hint of nuance, which implied it really wasn't okay. From the sound of it, the surgery had gone smoothly, and talking to dad had later reassured him. There'd been no snags or nasty complications and Charlie was recovering well.

This was all fine and dandy in theory.

Don ground his teeth in frustration. He felt as though he'd been thrown into the maelstrom and had his fate cast to the wind. It was supposed to have been a simple fishing trip. Just a few nights alone – him and Charlie. To kick back and relax in the warm autumn sun, eat fresh-caught trout and sink a few beers.

Instead, it had turned into a nightmare.

A hate-fest of violence and bloodlust.

How the fuck was Charlie going to recover – to come out smiling in just a couple of days?

To hear the news you might have cancer and then be confronted with the Harrison's. So close – they had come so close to losing it all – to tipping over the edge into infinity. Dear God, he couldn't speak for Charlie, but right now, _he_ was having a little difficulty dealing. The nightmares were going to haunt him for a very long time, in-fact, he wondered if they'd _ever_ go away.

He woke up in a sweat hearing Harrison's voice, saw his face when his eyelids dropped southwards. There were times, when his mind was confused by the meds, that he thought he could still feel the rain.

It was hard to believe they were both still alive. For a while back there, he'd thought he was dying. Even now, some of his memories felt splintered and vague, most especially the ones by the lake. _Ice cold of the water and moonlight on stones, the shape of mountains brooding on the skyline. The slip of his feet on the shingle and sharp scent of leaves on the air._ Don shivered at the onslaught of images, trying to sort them into some kind of order. He had a sense they might elude him forever, unless he actually went back there one day.

"Don," Robin's voice was a little concerned. "Are you okay, I'll go get the nurse?"

"No," he put a quick hand on her arm. "Don't go yet, I want you to stay."

"I told you, I'm not going anywhere," she didn't sound any less worried, "but that last coughing fit was a nasty one, and your pain meds are about due again."

He pushed himself up higher. "Almost four o'clock. Charlie'll be here any minute. I'll call for the meds after he's had his results. I need to stay sharp for this."

She gave a small sigh of resignation. "You're a good brother, you know that?"

Don thought back to Charlie and the time in the woods. "Hey, it's kind of a mutual thing."

_**TBC**_

**___________________________________________________________________________________________________________**


	15. Chapter 15

**_Disclaimer:_ -** _for language_

_**A/N: -**_ _We've come to end of this story and Don and Charlie's adventures in the wilderness. __A big thank-you to everyone who's taken the time to read and respond and review - you've been great!_

_**P.S** - thanks as usual to all the unsigned reviewers - PattyB - it's always terrific to hear from you and receive your kind words of encouragement. _

_Lisa._

**_______________________________________________________________________________________________________**

_**Superheroes **_

'_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'_

Marc Brown

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

_**Chapter Fifteen**_

_**Three Months Later . . .**_

Don looked around and gave an appreciative sigh as he leaned back and rested his shoulders. He was well over the worse of his injuries by now, but still got the odd twinge in his back. It was the pneumonia which had proved to be his nemesis and the illness had been intractably stubborn. Even now, he was plagued by a lingering cough which hung on and remained hard to shift. His other hurts had disappeared gradually and it was true, time _was_ a healer. Bruises faded and bones knit together. The only thing left to fix was his head.

Talking of heads – he looked over at Charlie.

His brother sat a few yards away from him staring dreamily out across the water, to all intents and purposes, wrapped deeply in thought, he seemed at least a hundred miles away. Don watched him for a while and debated, he didn't really have the heart to disturb him. He guessed Charlie would start talking when he wanted to. There was so much they still needed to say.

For now, Don was happy just to sit here and drift. The sky was blue and the day was mellow. Dad would be picking them up about suppertime, but for now, all this sun-drenched beauty was his.

Or to be more precise, his and Charlie's.

Don smiled slightly, couldn't help it. He doubted if Charlie had even noticed the scenery. He most certainly wasn't watching the horizon and the outlook was the last thing on his mind.

The sensation swept over him suddenly. Out of the blue and with no trumpets of warning. Don experienced a strange feeling of eeriness which made his skin prickle with goose bumps, a sense of compelling familiarity that cut through his newfound calm like a knife. He shivered and looked over his shoulder. The gesture was reflexive and knee-jerk. For a moment the air thrummed with danger and a threatening awareness of menace.

Nothing – of course, there was nothing. They were alone and he was being paranoid_._ _Just the quick skim and flash of a lone pair of ducks as they dipped and flew over the lake._ Exhaling sharply, he tried to relax but the fragile air of peace had been shattered. If he didn't know any better, he would bet his life they'd been here before. The occurrence was oddly unsettling and for a few seconds he felt distinctly ill at ease, like the recollection of a long-buried nightmare or the half-forgotten memory of a dream.

_Come on, Eppes, get with the programme,_ he shook himself back to reality. They'd simply come here for a few hours fishing and, _for chrissakes,_ it wasn't even the same lake. His memory still wasn't quite up to speed as a result of the vicious pounding he'd taken, but every now and then a broken sliver would return, like the silver-bright refraction of glass.

He still didn't know how he felt about that. It was a bit like getting back on a bicycle. No one had suggested they revisit the lake but there was part of him which wanted to return. When he'd broached the subject, Charlie had been horrified, and the strength of that reaction had unnerved him. The issue had been dropped like a bag of hot coals and he hadn't tried to mention it again. So much for the direct approach, Don sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. His fingers encountered the trace of a lump. It was yet another little souvenir.

One day, he would return for the hell of it, bite the bullet and retrace their footsteps. He'd go alone, if there was no alternative, but hopefully with Charlie in tow. He needed to go back and bury the ghosts – almost like some kind of pilgrimage, but one man's meat was another man's poison and he wasn't totally devoid of tact. Just because it felt right to him didn't mean it would necessarily help Charlie and he had no intention of forcing the issue which might end up doing more harm than good.

So here they were, on the much-vaunted fishing trip, but just an hour into Orange County. Not quite what either one of them had wanted, but it was better late than never, he supposed. This little jaunt had been dad's suggestion and quite frankly, Don was surprised he wasn't with them. Ever since they'd both left the hospital, he could hardly bear to let them out of his sight.

The last few months hadn't been easy and he was happy to see the back of them. He'd been trapped in the worse kind of limbo where everything felt forced and unreal. So okay – he was the first to admit it – he was probably a terrible invalid. It really didn't suit his personality, being stuck at home and chafing at the bit. He'd been pretty wiped out for most of the time, and paradoxically, this had worked in his favour. Too tired and out of breath to do anything but rest, and at one stage, move far from the couch.

He was better now, or at least he was getting there, feeling bored and restless and antsy, and driving them all nuts at the office by calling in on average twice a day. God, he'd never thought he'd hear himself say it, but he was sick to death of reading the sports page – he'd become quite an authority on minority sports and was fed up of watching re-runs on TV.

When his head injury no longer bothered him, he'd caught up with a lot of his reading, alternating between some trusty old favourites and a pile of new books he'd kept meaning to try. There was a lot to be said for the quiet life and sitting about under the trees in the garden. He was sure he was going to enjoy it one day – say, when he was around eighty-five.

Next week, he was back to work on light duties, with strict instructions to ease in gently. He had a feeling it would not pose a problem when he'd seen the little glint in Robin's eye. He grinned softly as he remembered, and then shook his head with exasperation. She was not above using subterfuge and he suspected a coalition with dad.

Who would have thought it – he didn't stand a hope in hell.

His loving girlfriend and doting father.

They'd created an unholy alliance formed solely to keep him in line.

One of the best things to come out of this was the way the two appeared to have bonded, dad always _did_ have a soft spot for lawyers, and after all, he had been married to one. It filled him with warmth and not a little relief as he sat back and watched them together, and he wondered if dad remembered the comments he'd made, when he and Robin had broken up the first time. As duplicitous as he knew his father could be – _surely even dad wouldn't stoop that low _– he wouldn't mind betting the words still resounded in his head whenever Alan spent any time alone with Robin.

From his point of view, it could only be good, and to be honest, he was all for it. He still nurtured a small fear she might walk away and he was not prepared to lose her again. For this sake, he would put up with anything – even the statutory humiliation, and so, he'd sat through all the naked baby pictures, gritting his teeth at the gleam in dad's eye. Talking of which, there was something unnatural in the amount of pleasure dad seemed to get from this, but what the hell; he was ready to sanction anything which might convince Robin to stay.

Sighing, he watched the movement of the water, and the slight rise and fall of the ripples. The earlier sense of menace appeared to have gone and the place felt benevolent again. The thought made him pause and shake his head, for God's sake he was sounding too fanciful. It wasn't like him to be so easily spooked or badly fazed by a slight shift in atmosphere, he felt annoyed and suddenly vulnerable, far more aware of his sense of mortality and subject to the vagaries of fate. Generally vigilant by nature, he usually took note of his surroundings. It was part an inborn sense of instinct and the rest a response to his job. This however, was something else entirely, and he wasn't all that sure he liked it, a formless sense of something half-remembered lying just beneath the surface of his skin.

Like Charlie, he wished Kyle Harrison was dead. Of course he did, it was a no-brainer. He was absolutely sure, without the shadow of a doubt, the man must hate him more than ever before. Charlie, too – Don studied his brother and wondered if the fact had occurred to him – that his life would be in serious danger, if Harrison ever got loose.

Charlie appeared sweetly oblivious as he sat deep in reflective silence. He would occasionally switch his grip on the fishing pole, but other than that, he seemed barely awake. Don hoped – really hoped – that he was truly unaware and his head wasn't choked-up with fears.

As for him, well, he was tough and he would survive. No point dwelling on all the _what if's_ and _maybe's._ The bad dreams would cease and normality would return as he slipped slowly back into his life. There was no way he would lose track of Harrison, either where he was or what he was doing. He'd update himself weekly, if necessary, just to keep his finger firmly on the pulse. No chance of any unpleasant shocks – no more threats or nasty surprises. This mess had taught him a salutary lesson and he refused to be caught napping again.

Harrison had been arraigned without bail as the judge had rightly assumed him a flight risk. He was charged with attempted murder and hadn't personally said a single word in court. The _'not guilty plea'_ had been expected and Robin hadn't shown any mercy at pre-trial, but Harrison's lawyer had pulled out all the stops and headed off down the sympathy route. He was an Ex-marine, recently returned from Iraq, probably suffering from post-traumatic syndrome, newly bereaved when both his father and brother had died, and bet your life, he'd wear his uniform in court.

Don frowned, hoping the jury would see through the ruse, or at least not be swayed by any overblown sense of patriotism, but then again, he knew Robin was sharp as a blade when it came to final juror selection. Even though it was something he'd done many times, he was not looking forward to the court date. Although he took each and every case personally, this one mattered to him more than all the others.

_This time it was about him and Charlie._

Harrison had set out to kill them.

It was going to take a long time to get over this – to recover from their time at the lake.

It was never going to be a simple fishing trip, and with hindsight, that much was obvious. Perhaps the Eppes brothers didn't do simple and he should be resigned to that now. They'd been bogged down with so many issues and burdened with old grievances and fears. Admittedly, he shouldered his fair share of the blame; just take the shooting, as a little starter. Their slight estrangement and the blow of Charlie's tumour, and then the dammed clearance ghost who refused to go away. Said phantom had been a particular thorn although neither of them had been prepared to confess it, and to be honest, when Charlie suggested the trip, he had been hoping for a chance to thrash it out.

Strange how it now seemed irrelevant – almost dying had seen neatly to that.

One thing was for sure, he patted his belt, fingers touching the reassurance of his holster. Didn't matter how innocent the journey – he would never leave his gun at home again. Or go _anywhere_ too far off the beaten track where he couldn't get a signal on his cell.

He raised an eyebrow and shook his head slightly, more than a little amused by his own craziness, okay, he might not resort to such excessive extremes, but it would take a long time to feel safe.

Talking of safe – he looked over at Charlie and remembered that time in the hospital. It was almost exactly three months to the day when they'd first heard the results of the biopsy . . .

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He felt remote and decidedly spacey as he endured the short ride in the wheelchair. On the whole, he supposed he should be worried, but the overriding emotion was relief. Was there a protocol for these sorts of times in one's life - a list of rules or a set of guidelines? He shut his mind to all the sights in the corridors and focused in on nothingness instead.

This then, was the moment of truth.

In a few minutes he would know if he had cancer.

He wasn't sure if the knowing would change very much or clear out the ghosts from his head.

At least he would be with his brother again, get to see he was really improving. Didn't matter how often they told him – he still wanted some real proof for himself. He shivered – _God, he was well enough aware by now - _all the phone call assurances meant nothing. For all he knew, Don might be desperately sick, but odds on, he still wouldn't say.

Not desperately sick, but then again, not too well. Charlie paled as he saw Don for the first time. He was grey and in obvious discomfort, but it was wonderful to see him awake. He looked up and then his good eye crinkled as he grinned and held his hand out to Charlie. Robin rose to afford them some privacy, and left the room after mentioning some meds.

"Hey, bro," Don's voice was croaky and thick with the sound of infection. "About time, you know, it's really good to see you."

"And you," Charlie swallowed hard. "It's really good to see you, too."

Reaching out, he linked with his brother's hand, knuckles bumping together awkwardly. Don's skin was dry with a slight hint of fever. Charlie gripped harder and held on tight. He closed his eyes and relief flooded over him again, feeling the warmth and life thrum through Don's fingers. They'd made it – they'd really made it this far, and despite all the odds, they'd survived.

Don beat him to it. "Are you okay?" he didn't waste any time with small talk. "Being stuck in Fresno was driving me crazy; I tried my best to get here before."

He chuckled, he couldn't help it, and the words lifted his battered spirits. All this impatience was such a part of his brother, and so damned reassuring to hear. Looking at Don and hearing his voice in the flesh, for the first time since that day in the forest, made Charlie realise how much he had missed him and how very afraid he had been.

"Physically, I think the surgery went okay. Since then, I've been a little headachy, but it's only to be expected, and they tell me I'm recovering well."

"I see you went for the matching accessory look," Don indicated their similar black eyes. "Hey, someone should have warned me, I could have sent you a panda if I'd known."

"I think having one bear is more than enough," Charlie shook his head, a little dryly, "and besides, Smokey might get a tad jealous. He's become something of a minor celebrity – especially with the nurses on my floor."

"You sure it's the bear who's become a celebrity?" Don grinned, and teased him gently. "When it comes down to cute and adorable, can't beat those puppy-dog eyes."

Charlie proceeded to roll said _puppy-dog_ eyes. "And here we have it, ladies and gentlemen – my big brother, should have been a comedian. No wait – don't you have to be funny? We might have a small problem with that."

Don sat forward abruptly, grin fading, as he broke into a strenuous coughing fit. It continued for a least a minute or two, interspersed with a series of groans. He tore his hand out of Charlie's and wrapped it around his ribcage, holding on tightly to his damaged chest as he waited and rode out the storm. Charlie sat mutely and watched in distress. It didn't help much to see Don was used to this. He had a sudden, uncomfortable flashback, to that terrible night by the lake.

_Jake's forearm compressing his windpipe and a sense of indescribable panic, helpless and stricken with terror, as he fought and struggled for air. _

"I'm calling the nurse."

He reached across for the call-button, but Don shook his head and forestalled him. He pulled a face and waited a second or two, and then pointed towards the Kleenex instead.

"It's okay – just pass me some tissues. There's nothing the nurses can do."

Charlie swallowed and fought hard with the images, but for the first time, they refused to forsake him. It was almost as though he was back there again, watching Don and Harrison down by the water, with the moonlight carving shadows in the huddle of rocks and then glancing off the surface of the lake.

_Harrison's face as he looked down at Don, grinning maniacally, like some kind of lunatic, and over and over, the thud of his boots as they pounded his brother's body. _

He took a deep breath, and then regretted it, as the sharp intake made his face ache. The swift passage of air burned his sinuses and hurt the tender bridge of his nose. It jolted him back to the present though, and for that alone, he was grateful, his life right now was plenty tough enough, without the added burden of the past.

"Sorry about that," Don sounded rueful. "I know it's all pretty revolting, but it's kind of hard to cough properly, what with the broken ribs."

Charlie guessed he should say something, but everything felt stupidly inadequate. He felt guilty and suddenly uncomfortable and the silence only made it seem worse. Don had surrendered and taken that beating for him – because Jake had been holding him hostage. He'd relinquished his advantage over Harrison and given up any hope of escape.

What the hell could he say, what could he possibly say, which would in any way help salve his conscience? Don nearly died – they both almost died – due to his insistence on going up to the damned lake. If only he'd done what most people did and confronted the truth about his illness, he should have trusted them, relied on their love and support, and been more open with his family and friends. But he hadn't and this was the ghastly result. His sick brother coughing his lungs out. In the end, it was all so unnecessary, all this terrible anguish and pain.

Suddenly, the silence seemed deafening, and he was aware of Don regarding him sharply.

"Charlie, we need to - "

"_What, talk about this?"_ he knew what his brother would say.

Any other words were thankfully averted by the sound of voices outside in the corridor, and then Charlie felt his throat close over, as Doctor Rosen swept into the room. He shook Don's hand and then sat down by the bed, making small-talk as he prepared his folder. Charlie realised his teeth had started chattering, he looked up and his eyes clung to Don's.

He felt it then – tingling on the periphery, like looking down, towards the end of a long tunnel. A familiar sense of distance and enclosure which promised to put an end to all his pain. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant, rather intangible and seductively inveigling. It would be easy, so easy to discard all of this and step into the void once again.

"Hey, Charlie?"

He felt the strength of Don's hand on his arm, the warmth of his touch on his skin; the sensation dragged him back into the moment, and he heaved a sigh of shuddering relief. He was never going back to that place, so alluring and yet so very dangerous. It was illusion and he no longer needed it. He had a wealth of reality instead.

"I'm ready," he looked up at the neurologist calmly. "I need to know my results."

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Don, are you still with me?"

Don roused and opened his eyes, not entirely sure that he was. "Yeah," he sat up a little straighter and realised he must have been coughing. It had become such an integral part of his life that it didn't even wake him anymore. "Sorry, man, did you say something? Must have dozed off for a minute or two."

"It's okay," he heard the grin in Charlie's voice, "didn't want to fish _you_ out of the lake."

"Hey, I'm quite a catch, according to Robin," he grimaced at the empty holding net beside them, "and besides, the way our luck's been going, I could be the _only_ catch of the day."

"I think you're right," Charlie put his fishing rod down and rummaged in the cooler beside him. He took out and opened a couple of beers and then passed one over to Don. "Here, this will help ease your throat."

"Thanks," Don took a swig from the bottle and then raised a toast at Charlie, eyes twinkling. "You sure this is safe to drink, bro, don't want to attract any bears?"

"Very funny," Charlie scowled at him and then ruined the effect by looking quickly over his shoulder.

They drank in silence for a minute or two and Don idly watched the sunlight on the water. There were no mountains soaring over this lake and the surrounding hills were golden and serene. He remembered his earlier feeling of menace; it was baffling and more than slightly embarrassing. In light of all this soft rosy beauty it seemed absurd now and distinctly out of place.

Charlie gave a heavy sigh. "You were quite right, that day back in the hospital, and I guess we really ought to talk about it. You know, Amita once told me how open I was – it seems ironic now, in light of all this."

"These things take time, Chuck," Don spoke to him gently, "and hey, I don't have a leg to stand on. I know I'm the world's worse control freak, and I never found all this emotional stuff easy."

"But you have found it now - " Charlie paused, and looked up at him pleadingly. "I mean, Doctor Bradford has helped you a lot with those issues and you seem to be far more relaxed."

Don considered. "Doc Bradford made me look at things honestly, yeah, and I didn't always like what I saw. Made me realise why Robin left me the first time and helped me to start making some changes."

"Going to temple?"

"That's a big part of it," he couldn't help tensing defensively. He didn't want to get into a religious debate or have to argue his fledgling beliefs. "It feels like somebody opened a door and showed me a whole other world. Must be a little like you with the math – you see things from a different perspective, well, that's how I feel about going to temple and accepting faith into my life."

"I'm really glad for you, Don, if it helps you."

"What, no lecture on God versus math?"

"No lecture," Charlie shook his head, slowly. "We'll just have to agree to disagree."

Don grinned," are you quite sure you're feeling okay, because I can call dad if you want me to. I can't believe you're not holding forth on me, did you remember to take your meds today?"

For answer, Charlie flipped him the bird, and took two more beers out of the cooler. It appeared they might be in for quite a session and Don couldn't help but feel glad. Charlie had been so buttoned up about things, and it was starting to become a real worry, as though a light had been extinguished inside him, he'd been remote, verging on the withdrawn. He guessed it was why dad had brought them out here, in the hope it might get Charlie talking, as ideas went, it wasn't half bad, and his father was a wily old bird.

His injuries had fuddled his head for a while, and the morphine stripped away a lot of clarity, but gradually, as he got stronger, he began to see things with more of an edge. There were constraints between dad and Charlie which had been absent before their trip to the Sierras, buried hurts and unresolved feelings which were slowly eroding with time.

Not just with dad – it was the same with Amita. To his dismay, he had noticed a difference. It was hard to avoid her air of distress or the wounded look in her eyes. He decided, as Charlie was in the mood to talk, it was time to chow down on the bullet. After all, he supposed, in the scheme of things, it was kind of what big brothers were for.

"So, how's it going with you and Amita now, she forgiven you for keeping things a secret?"

"Come to terms with, rather than forgiven," Charlie picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Paradoxically, the results worked in my favour. I don't think she would have been quite so understanding if it had turned out I really had cancer."

"Sounds weird, but I actually get it," Don nodded. "She was hurt and feeling rejected. You turned away when you should have trusted her – looked to her in your hour of need."

Charlie spoke with a hint of bitterness. "That's a little rich coming from you, don't you think, when you avoid being open by omission. You neglected to tell me you'd been shot in the chest that day we drove up to the lake."

"It was wrong – I was stupid – what can I say, but any other time, I would have got away with it. Charlie, I guessed there was something up with you, but the fates were against us that day."

"So, it was my fault?" Charlie's voice wobbled. "My selfish needs turned you into a martyr? I can't have all that on my conscience – it's bad enough as it is."

_What the fuck?_

Don stared at his brother more closely and tried to digest what he was saying. What had happened was down to ill-fortune and chance, so how come Charlie was bowed under with self-blame?

"Care to enlighten me, how was it your fault? _How could anything that happened be your fault?_ Bad luck, if you like, and coincidence, but mainly one evil sonofabitch."

"But that's just it, Kyle used me as leverage, and you did everything you could to stop him hurting me. He might be evil, a vicious killer, but a lot of what he said to me was true."

"That's bullshit and I want you to know it. Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? Harrison got his kicks from messing with you, he was screwing around with your head. A head, I might add, which was pretty confused and short a few major essentials. You were sick back then, sick and vulnerable. For God's sake, you almost died."

He sat back, breathing hard with fury, really wishing he could get his hands on Harrison. He squeezed the beer bottle tightly, as though it was the bastard's neck. It went a long way to clearing up a few mysterious issues, if Charlie truly believed all this crap. He exhaled and cast his mind back; things had been weird since that day in the hospital, but he'd been spaced out and too sick to do anything, when with hindsight, he could have been more proactive. After all the emotion and trauma, when theoretically, they should have grown closer, he'd sensed Charlie pulling away from him and retreating back into his shell.

It really should have been a wild celebration. The tumour was benign and wholly treatable, but instead, they'd all been too damned shell-shocked, and underscored with a mute sense of relief.

"Look, Doc Rosen explained you weren't thinking straight, you were firing without enough cortisol. What you did was nothing short of heroic. You do recall saving my life?"

"I recall you surrendering to Harrison, and then bargaining for _my life_ with a madman. I remember you stepping in front of the gun – a gun he was pointing at me."

Don put down the beer and struggled up to his feet. This was no time for restraint or moderation. He moved across to the bank next to Charlie; they needed to sort this thing now. After it all – after everything they'd been through, he'd be damned if he was taking any chances. That fucker Harrison was not going to beat them, and he was not prepared to compromise with this.

"You know what my lowest point ever was?" he draped an arm across Charlie's shoulders, and took a fortifying swallow of beer. "It was discovering mom had cancer. At the time, I kinda thought, _this is it, man_; it doesn't get much worse than this."

"Don - "

"And then my brother says we need to go fishing at a time when things are not so great between us. It makes sense, in-fact, it makes more than sense, because I know that I'm partly to blame."

"There's no need for you to do this."

"Yeah, there is," Don regarded him seriously. "You had your say, so now it's my turn. We both have a take on this, Charlie, and there are a few things I'd like to explain. That night, by the lake, when you finally came clean and told me about the tumour, I remembered that feeling when I heard about mom, and at that point, I knew I'd been wrong. It was horrible – just the worse kind of deja-vu – and to be honest, I didn't know if I could do it. I could see what you were asking, what you wanted of me. I wasn't sure if I could go through that again."

It wasn't a question. "But you would have."

Don answered softly. "_I would have -_ just like I would have taken that bullet. For the same reason you hiked all the way to the ridge, and then pulled that crazy stunt with the knife." He sighed, and then ruffled his brother's hair, happy to note it was growing out a little. "Don't you get it, Chuck, things are good now. Sure, we're different, but in the end, we're still brothers. Doesn't mean you're not the world's worse pain in the ass, but you _do_ know I love you, right?"

"I love you too, Don."

He felt the sudden lift of Charlie's shoulders and sensed that his brother was smiling. What a difference a few straightforward words made, in the end, it all seemed so simple.

"Does this mean we're good?"

"I think we're good, except for one thing I'd just like to mention . . . no more keeping secrets by omission."

"Deal - and no more crazy stunts with a knife."

Charlie shivered. "Most _definitely_ a deal. I'm giving up the superhero business. In future, I'm sticking to what I know best and a more effective way of solving crime."

Don grinned and couldn't resist it. He cocked his head and pretended to consider; "and for that alone, the world will be grateful, when it's spared the joy of seeing you in tights."

**THE END**

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**Lisa Paris - 2009**

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